A Parliament of Fowls: The First Kingsmoot of Westeros
by Silver Phantom 2
Summary: Alternate History that begins with Catelyn Stark convincing the Baratheon brothers to ally with her son and choose a King afterward. It starts with Robb, Renly, and Stannis. But new players emerge as votes replace battles and elections replace wars, but just for now.
1. Prologue

Obviously, everything here is the property of George R.R. Martin. I own nothing except any original characters.

**The First Kingsmoot of Westeros**

**299-300 A.L.**

**Prologue**

This is an alternate history of George R.R. Martin's fantasy series _A Song of Ice and Fire_. It's based off a single line in _A Clash of Kings _(Book 2) where Catelyn begs Renly to not fight Stannis, to ally with him and Robb and after the War, they may decide amongst themselves who shall be King.

Renly's response is, "Do wolves decide which among the pack will rule? No."

But say Catelyn's plea hadn't been so desperate. Say Catelyn had been a little more persuasive and brought a more solid plan to both Renly _and _Stannis. Admittedly, it's a stretch with our King in the Narrow Sea, but I've caught election fever and am trying to channel that energy into a Westerosi TL, so here goes.

The POD is mid-298 A.L. Catelyn Stark joins Renly's forces as they meet with Stannis' in the Stormlands. When Stannis pulls out Lightbringer, Lady Stark jumps in front and eloquently brings together the Baratheon brothers.

When the Red Woman declares that Stannis need not consult with Renly and Robb, Catelyn retorts, "Then what does he have to fear of a mere council?" She convinces the Baratheons that the Lannisters are the true enemy and begins an Allied war council.

The Baratheon-Redwyne fleet journeys around Dorne and into Blackwater Bay to blockade King's Landing. Renly marches up the Rose Road while Robb brings the Stark host across the River Road. On a field south of the God's Eye, Tywin Lannister makes an epic stand and gloriously falls to the Allied forces of Kings Renly and Robb.

The Stark-Tully-Baratheon-Tyrell combined force then marches on King's Landing. Sandwiched between the Allied army to the west and the fleet to the east, Tyrion Lannister is no fool. He entreats with Lady Stark on the surrender of King's Landing. They come to an agreement:

The city shall not be harmed.

All Lannister bannermen who lay down arms will be free to leave the city and go home, all others will swear fealty to the Small Council.

The false King Joffrey Baratheon and Queen Cersei Lannister will be put to trial by the Small Council.

Tyrion Lannister, as defender of the city, will be granted a place on the Small Council of the Iron Throne, until a new King is chosen.

The agreement is made and the Allied forces enter King's Landing, ready to distribute food and security. Joffrey and Cersei are thrown in a pair of Black Cells as the Kings debate on control of the city. Robb is all to eager to return north with his army and seize Winterfell from the Greyjoys. Catelyn Stark once again comes to the rescue with a compromise: King Robb and King Stannis will bring the Allied armies north (Robb through the Neck, Stannis to White Harbor to flank Moat Cailin).

As Robb and Stannis forge a strange warrior friendship as they defeat Ironborn, Bolton, and wildling, their advisors are hard at work in King's Landing with Lord Renly and Tyrion Lannister on the Small Council.

Lady Stark, Lord Renly, Tyrion, also deal with Mace Tyrell and Alester Florent. Most of the Lannister bannermen have remained in the city to keep the peace and distribute food. Ravens fly almost endlessly from King's Landing to Oldtown as Maesters are consulted on the laws of the Seven Kingdoms of old and the laws of Aegon's Westeros.

Finally, the North is free of ironmen, Mance Rayder has been captured, and Ramsay Snow has been hanged. King Robb and King Stannis gather their lords to return to King's Landing and begin the First Kingsmoot of Westeros. What they leave behind is a land burned, sacked, and desolate. The walls of Winterfell black, the gates of Castle Black demolished, a bastard as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

So this is the situation at the start of our TL

King Robb Stark leaves the North victorious. Stark soldiers defend the Wall alongside the Night's Watch, now led by the 998th Lord Commander Jon Snow.

King Stannis Baratheon also leave victorious, half his fleet stationed in Skagos, the other half ferrying him to King's Landing.

Ser Brynden Tully waits in Seagard with an allied Tully-Tyrell force preparing for the invasion of the Iron Islands.

Lord Renly, preparing to sit the Iron Throne pulls strings to turn the Kingsmoot Council in his favor.

Joffrey Baratheon and Cersei Lannister have been executed.

Sansa and Arya Stark are long missing.

Theon Greyjoy is assumed dead.

Brandon Stark has gone north of the Wall, Rickon Stark is missing.

In the East, things have gone as IOTL. Daenerys Targaryen is about to seize Meereen, or has seized it already.

Shortly before we begin, Oberyn Martell and his Dornish host of 300 have entered King's Landing.

The pieces are set. The next round of the game begins.


	2. Robb I

**Robb**

The walls of Winterfell were black and desolate when Robb returned. He walked through them as if in a dream, envisioning all the times he spent with his brothers, his sisters, his father. And now they were all gone. Lady Catelyn was in King's Landing… Robb knew she would never return. The sight of her home being torched, with all the memories of Lord Eddard, and Bran, Rickon, and Arya were too much to bear. Robb would order the castle retaken, a small guard left behind to begin repairs, and then the march west to retake Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn.

Retaking the North was easy once the Ironborn turned on each other. Thank the gods for Asha Greyjoy. Still, the fire coming from Winterfell and the blood of his kin on the snow was not an easy sight to bear. For whatever reason, the blood in the Riverlands or the West was easy. The blood of Tywin Lannister was all too glorious. The surrender of King's Landing was exemplary for its sheer lack of bloodshed. But the North. This was too much.

He woke in a sweat. Lady Roslin stirred and put a soft hand on his shoulder.

Robb pushed her away as he stood and walked over to the window. King's Landing always had fires and lights. It was a long way from Winterfell, but his mother summoned him here for the Kingsmoot. Robb had no desire to sit the Iron Throne. He was meant to be Lord of Winterfell at least, King in the North at most, he should not be here.

"Husband?" Roslin put on a nightgown to cover herself and walked over to him.

Robb was used to the cold. An Autumn day in King's Landing was like a summer snow in Winterfell, "Lady Wife, I'm glad our children will have wolf blood in them. Your thin Frey blood will never stand them in Winterfell."

"I'm glad for that as well. As for myself, I'll need plenty of furs."

Robb smiled at that. He hugged her and kissed her forehead, thankful Lord Walder had at least one unweasel-like daughter. More than that, she was beautiful. Lord Walder, by rights, should not have bred such a woman. Robb liked to entertain the idea that she was actually Roslin Rivers, and was the natural daughter of some handsomer family. Perhaps even a Northman, "We'll go to Bear Island as soon as I lose the Kingsmoot. We'll buy you a wardrobe of bearskins."

Roslin laughed, "Bearskins? Do you think me so big, only the fur of a bear will fit me?"

_My wife. What would I do without you? _"No, but it will be just enough to warm your blood."

He brushed her hair out of her eyes, "You dreamed again." Robb didn't respond, "What did you dream of?"

"Winterfell." Robb sighed, "I dreamed of Winterfell and the North." _Fire. Fire and Blood_, "I can never let my mother go back there."

"You can't command your mother like that," Roslin said, "She's your mother."

"Lady Stark won't be able to handle Winterfell. Her daughter is dead. Her sons are dead. Her husband is dead. What's left for a lady of the Riverlands in Winterfell? Sorrow and memory. There's nothing left for her there. There's hardly anything left for me there."

"She still has one son. Her first born."

"I know," Robb said, "I will visit Riverrun often enough. Perhaps I can find a match for her in some other part of the Seven Kingdoms. A place with a beautiful Sept, a noble husband…" Robb sighed, "I don't know."

"You would force your mother to marry again?" Roslin seemed to find that curious.

_No. That is not the word I would use_, "I would not force her. I would encourage her, in due time, and maybe suggest a match."

"Who would you match for your mother?" Roslin joked. There was laughter at the edge of her voice; Robb wasn't sure whether or not he should seriously entertain the thought of encouraging his mother to marry again. Roslin made a good point: whom would Robb want as a stepfather anyway?

Wyman Manderly was fat, but a marriage alliance between Winterfell and White Harbor would be incredibly valuable, especially if Robb wasn't elected King, as was most likely. Yet, there was the fact to consider that his mother might not survive the bedding if Wyman Manderly climbed atop Lady Stark.

The Greatjon Umber, perhaps. Though their family was not very good with women. Hother Whoresbane made sure of that. Nor was Last Hearth a place for a woman of the Riverlands. Maybe Robb was better off looking southward for his mother's husband… if he had a duty to look for one at all.

"Maybe it's none of my business. My mother doesn't need another husband. She certainly doesn't need _me_ to pick one." Still, now that Robb was Lord Stark, he couldn't help but think of the alliances that could be formed: House Mallister or House Royce. Was Catelyn Tully past her breeding years? Robb couldn't help but imagine a half-brother Lord of Runestone or Seagard who was best friends with the Lord of Winterfell. Maybe even Robb would foster his half-brother…

"I think that's the first sensible thing you've said all night." Roslin said, tugging on his hand, "Now, please, come to bed. Tomorrow the Small Council is going to announce rules for the Kings."

"Would-be Kings," Robb said, "None of us are Kings yet."

"I think you're wrong. Tomorrow three Kings will meet, and by the turn of the new year, two Kings will be unmade." Roslin removed her robe and wrapped her arms around Robb's neck, "Tomorrow you can be a King, but tonight you're my lover."

Robb kissed, and held, and loved her. But it didn't stop the dreams of fire and blood from running through his head.


	3. Tyrion I

**Tyrion**

The small council chamber once again. Lady Stark sat in the Hand's seat, where Tyrion was used to sitting, but now he got to sit where Littlefinger always sat. _So this is the view we give the Master of Coin_. He looked around to all of the faces: Catelyn Tully, Renly Baratheon, Mace Tyrell, and Alester Florent. How strange the Small Council became virtually overnight.

A year ago, Robb Stark and Renly Baratheon joined their forces of Northlords and Riverlords, and Reachlords and Stormlords and slew Tywin Lannister at South-of-Eye. When the allied forces descended upon King's Landing with Stannis Baratheon's fleet waiting in Blackwater Bay, Tyrion decided it was probably wiser surrendering the city than the inevitable sack of the city. He even managed to save some lives, not least of all his own. Unfortunately, he couldn't spare his monstrous nephew or his murderous sister. For taking Ned Stark's head, both Baratheon and Stark demanded their own.

Robb Stark was all too happy to wield Ice on his own.

"So, we are agreed on these rules?" Lady Stark asked. She held the seat of "Prime Councilor," rather than "Hand of the King." There was no King, so he had no hand. But it was obvious who the Kings would choose as their Hand if the Kingsmoot went in their favor. Renly clearly favored Mace Tyrell, while Stannis favored the rival House Florent. Did Robb Stark want his mother as Hand of the King? It was a ridiculous notion, but there she was, sitting in the Hand's very seat.

"I believe so. We should bring in the Kings and explain how one of them is to be chosen," Renly was always a jester. When Robb and Stannis marched north to throw the Ironborn back into the sea (and repelled the Wildlings at the epic Battle of Castle Black) Renly stayed behind to aide with the Small Council, whose sole duty was to prepare for the First Kingsmoot of Westeros.

"We should have Maester Perridin send this message across the Realm as well," Tyrion chimed in, "After all, we've opened the Kingsmoot to any who has support to claim the Iron Throne. If we begin and end the Kingsmoot before the Lords of Westeros hear about it, they will claim the King won by treachery and refused to uphold to its own constraints."

Everyone at the table sighed. Tyrion was by far, the best at this game. He tied them into riddles and philosophical claims until they had no choice but to concede his point, "Very well." Lady Stark said, sending a message to the Maester in the rookery to begin distributing messages across the Realm.

Lord Florent stood and said, "I'll gather the Kings."

"Please tell King Renly to look his best. He must make a good appearance at the Small Council," Lord Renly said. Tyrion wished he could smack that smarmy smile from his face. He'd had enough of his jests for one lifetime, "Perhaps I should get him myself." Renly bowed and left the Small Chamber.

"If only he was as wise as he was japey," Tyrion said.

Catelyn Tully gave something of a murmur of approval. Tyrion could tell she was still uneasy near him after their mishaps in the Vale, "I suppose we should probably have had a Maester here when devising the Rules of Kingsmoot."

"Indeed, where has Grand Maester Pycelle been this whole time?" Mace Tyrell, where is your mother?

"He's in a Black Cell." Tyrion said, matter-of-factly, "I discovered he was spying for my sister and left him down there to starve to death. With any luck, the Citadel will send us a new Grand Maester who prefers books better than whores and gold. I didn't think he was the kind of Maester you'd want on the Small Council to choose Westeros' new king."

"Why not?" Lady Stark asked, "We have you."

"So you do. Except my intentions are not masked: I intend to influence the choice for new king. Maesters of the Citadel, however, claim to support neither House nor Regime and only serve the Realm. You should be familiar with those characters in the North, no? Well who would you rather have to deal with: the man who tells you he is a friend, all the while holding a knife at your throat, or the man who tells you he is willing to work with you, all his weapons laid out before you in the dirt?"

That shut her up.

Just in time for the three Kings to walk into the Small Chamber dressed in all their finery. Renly changed his Small Council clothing for a regal raiment. As Tyrion looked them up and down, he saw how their clothing prophesied their style of reign.

King Renly Baratheon, the King in Highgarden. He wore a bejeweled crown of gold antlers, with gilded armor, a green cape, and polished to a high shine. His beard was closely cropped, and his smirk immortal. It was easy to mistake him for Robert-come-again. Holding his helmet and sword was the Knight of Flowers, Lord Commander of Renly's Rainbow Guard.

King Stannis Baratheon, the King in the Narrow Sea. He wore dented and scarred plate with the fiery heart of the Lord of Light emblazoned in the center of the armor. His crown was iron with fiery points, his dirty cape cropped short, sword at his side. Where Renly was decked in gold and green and yellow, Stannis was 49 shades of gray with black. The only color was his sigil. Holding his helmet of battle was Ser Davos Seaworth. Tyrion couldn't help but feel that he wanted to get to know a man with as interesting as name as "The Onion Knight."

King Robb Stark, the King in the North and King of the Trident. He certainly wasn't going to win any points wearing northern furs. They may keep him warm in the coming winter, but wouldn't win him any points with the Andals or the Faith. He was more Stannis than Renly, but rather than bedecked solely for battle, the Young Wolf could easily be dressing for a dangerous trip back north. His armor, and furs, and clean (not polished) boots showed he was ready to be a King, but a King of the people. A man with an eagle-crested helm and a purple doublet held the Stark Valyrian steel ancestral great sword Ice.

Before that moment, Tyrion Lannister realized Robb Stark could be a formidable political enemy. Having defeated Lannister armies in the Riverlands and the Westerlands, and Ironborn and Wildling armies in the North, Robb Stark was obviously the greatest of warriors: he'd never lost a battle. But great warriors seldom make great politicians. But Robb Stark chose Patrek Mallister to illustrate the North's alliance with the Riverlands, as well as his ready regal position to invade and subjugate the Iron Islands. The Young Wolf could not possibly send a clearer sign.

_Daeron I-come-again. _

"Your Graces, Kings of Westeros," Lady Stark began, "you asked us to develop a system to choose a King from among you. Since King Robb and King Stannis have journeyed North to war, we have developed a system of constraints that if followed will produce _one _King to sit the Iron Throne and rule." Tyrion had to admit that she looked the most regal one in the room, and she wasn't even trying, "Our first Constraint is that the crowned King will be the only King. When the Lords of Westeros have chosen one to lead them, the other claimants will step down and swear fealty to the Iron Throne. So the first Rule:

**"1. To partake in the First Kingsmoot of Westeros, the claimants to the Iron Throne swear to accede victory when victory is achieved and swear to not pick up arms against the victor"**

Regnal indeed. Had she an army, Lady Stark could have ascended the Iron Throne herself and kept it. _Oh… her son has an army. Say if Selyse Florent met an unfortunate end, Lady Stark could have the power of the North and Dragonstone…_

Stannis was the only one of the three who looked visibly disturbed by the pronouncement. He stepped forward and declared, "The Iron Throne is mine, by rights. That is law."

"No, Your Grace," _Even as she scolds him, she calls him Your Grace_, "_This _is law. You have charged us with constructing a system to choose a King and we have developed one. One thing we will not have is a new King sitting on the Iron Throne while Highgarden, Winterfell, or Dragonstone remain in rebellion. We will have one King, or none at all."

_Queen? Or Mother? _Tyrion almost laughed.

Tyrion thought King Renly might burst out laughing if it wasn't for the crown on his head. He was enjoying the scolding Catelyn was giving Stannis far too much.

The King in the Narrow Sea stepped back into line with his competitors, "As you say, Lady Stark."

"Now, the second clause concerns conditions for victory:

**"2. The claimant to the Iron Throne to attain the loyalty of 2/3 of the High Lords of Westeros shall sit the Iron Throne."**

"Two-thirds?" it was Renly who was surprised this time, "Not a simple majority?"

"No," Lord Alester responded, "We thought a simple majority would not be enough consensus to build behind a King, but three-fourths would be far too much and no King would ever be chosen."

Tyrion saw perplexion in Renly's face. Stannis revealed only cruel iron as usual. Renly perhaps thought to win in the first round of voting. He could as well win at least, or near half the lords of Westeros, just in his core regions of the Reach and the Stormlands. Stannis could not reach that goal in the first round, and the North might have a sparse population, but the Riverlands were quite populous.

When it appeared that no more objections would be raised, Lady Stark continued with the Kingsmoot Constraints:

**"3. Only after ¾ of the High Lords of the Westerlands swear oaths of fealty to the Iron Throne and the Small Council of the Kingsmoot may the Westerlords participate in the First Kingsmoot."**

As Tyrion expected, it was Robb Stark who complained at that, "Does that include the Lannisters?"

Tyrion spoke up, "It does, Your Grace." That was his doing. The council was ready to simply throw the West out of the Kingsmoot, but Tyrion was able to convince the Small Council that rebellions may persist for a century if the Lords of the West were not given a choice of their King. He pushed for the three-quarters deal because it would push the Westerlords to pressure other Westerlords to swear fealty to the Iron Throne so they could have a chance at voting. He explained all of that to the Kings as eloquently as he could. None of the Kings seemed pleased with his explanation.

**4. A Lord may claim the Iron Throne and participate in the Kingsmoot provided fifteen High Lords declare support for him.**

Stannis fought the first rule, Renly the second, and Robb the third. At the announcement of the fourth rule, all three Kings expressed their disapproval.

"You mean to open the Kingsmoot to any Lord with a castle?" Stannis cried.

"We do, Your Grace," Mace Tyrell said. Tyrion looked at Renly and saw how he looked far less concerned than either King Stannis or King Robb, after all, he heard the arguments in favor of the rule, but he was still uncomfortable when Lady Stark read it aloud, "Like the previous rules, we cannot have it be said for years that the First Kingsmoot was a farce. We need to open it to any with support, however few that may be."

"You don't think there are popular enough Lords who will muddy my claim to the Throne?" Stannis responded.

"If you swear fealty to the Kingsmoot, King Stannis, then you understand that it is not your Throne until you achieve two-thirds of the vote. If you choose not to partake, then yet, any Lord with enough support may lay a _bloodless _claim to the Iron Throne. The goal of the Kingsmoot is to choose our King with as little blood as possible. Voting will do that, and allowing Lords the honor of saying 'Once I lay claim to the Iron Throne' gives a measure of pride and place. Let it be known that in Westeros, any man may have been a King. How many can say that in Slaver's Bay?"

"Do not patronize me, Lady Stark, I am the true king." Stannis. Hard as iron.

"Your Grace," Catelyn began slowly, "if you choose not to swear fealty to the Kingsmoot, then by all means return to Dragonstone and begin the war anew. But King Robb and King Renly will decide amongst themselves and any other lord who lays a minor claim to the Throne who will sit it, and then the allied forces of Westeros will bring Dragonstone to its knees. If more blood is what you want, then by all means, lay your claim and proclaim your now outdated law."

Stannis's cold eyes stared down Lady Stark for a long while before he quietly growled behind gritted teeth, "Where do I sign?"

Tyrion stood and pointed to the bottom of the parchment, "Right there, Your Graces," and one by one, they all signed the First Kingsmoot Rule and Constraints.

**We, the Undersigned do swear Fealty to these constraints of the First Kingsmoot of Westeros.**

**Catelyn Tully**

**Renly Baratheon**

**Alester Florent**

**Mace Tyrell**

**Tyrion Lannister**

**Stannis Baratheon**

**Robb Stark**


	4. Brienne I

**Brienne**

_Here we are, _she thought, _the Red Keep to be crowned King_. Brienne stood at the foot of the Iron Throne and imagined Renly sitting upon it. She, Ser Loras, and the rest of the Rainbow Guard would stand at the foot of that chair and guard it as King Renly, the First of His Name would dole out justice and order for years to come. Perhaps War would come again: from across the Narrow Sea, from Dorne, from the Wildlings in the North, or some internal struggle. Either way, the thought of fighting to defend her King made Brienne bristle with joy.

_For Evenfall Hall! For Renly! For the Realm! _

Ser Bryce the Orange broke her trance, "Lady Brienne, the King summons his Rainbow Guard." He had orange hair, orange armor, and an orange shield. Ser Bryce was a fair warrior, and her brother.

"Where is the King?" Brienne asked, she wore her full helm to hide her more feminine features from others. _The more they see me as a man, the more they see me as an equal._

"He awaits in his Tower," Ser Bryce didn't bother waiting for Brienne to follow, he kept walking. Brienne, with her shield quartered with suns and moons, followed closely behind. They journeyed past the Throne, and to one of the Red Keep's towers where they walked through beams of sunrise light and morning darkness. When they reached the chamber where Ser Loras, Ser Emmon the Yellow, Ser Guyard the Green, Ser Parmen the Purple, and Ser Robar the Red were standing before King Renly along with the men he proposed to seat on his Small Council.

Lord Mace Tyrell sat at the King's right hand. Queen Margaery sat at the King's left. Lord Randyll, with his bald, scarred head and his discolored armor sat at the opposite end of the polished table. Brienne knew he was to be Master of Laws. Lord Paxter Redwyne was seated and fiddled with a pen and parchment, _the future Master of Ships_. Brienne noticed there were few seats left for Stormlords. Her own father, though aged, would make an excellent Master of Ships. All members of House Tarth knew their way around a boat. If only Evenfall Hall had a fleet to match the Arbor's. Perhaps she should bring up that possibility with King Renly when he was elected.

"Today is the day the Lords will cast their first vote," the King said right after the door closed, "I cannot understate the importance of this casting. We need the Lords of Westeros to know I am the strongest candidate. That way, if I don't win on the first vote, I _will_ win the second."

"Your Grace," Lord Redwyne began, "perhaps playing politics too early isn't such a poor solution? We can approach Robb Stark now and perhaps win his support. With all the power of the North and the Riverlands combined with the power you already possess, it will be impossible to lose. Stannis will be routed entirely."

"A bloodless Field of Fire…" Queen Margaery tried to translate poetically, "A Field of Flowers."

"Send out messages to the Reach, remind them who was there leading their sons at South-of-Gods-Eye. Remind them who their rightful southron King is. And tell them I will not soon forget my friends and allies." Renly smiled at everyone in the room. Brienne felt cheeks blush and was glad she wore her helmet. Renly… that smile, "I've spent the past year in this city ruling as its civil King. Stannis and Robb Stark may be warriors, but if a lord asks how I plan on ending the war, tell them I'll put my loyal Lords Stannis and Robb to use by sending them to Seagard. The Realm will not be at war forever. Robert was their warrior. Joffrey was their monster. Robb and Stannis will be their heroes…"

"But Renly will be their King." Margaery smiled

The Lords were then dismissed and went about their business. Ser Loras told the Rainbow Guard to follow the Lords to the Throne Room and prepare for the Kingsmoot. Brienne attended the Tyrells back to the room where a host of tables was placed, that weren't there when Brienne was standing at the foot of the Iron Throne hours earlier. Was this where the election would take place? Lady Catelyn Stark stood at the foot of the Throne and said, "Lord Tyrell, you and the Reachlords shall be sitting at the front end of this table here."

Lady Stark led the Reachlords and Brienne to a table just left of center. There would be more arriving, but this was where they would sit so far.

As the day went on, Stormlords sat opposite the Reachlords. A mixture of Northlords and Riverlords entered and sat at a far table. About an hour after wine and food was being served around lunchtime, an enormous party of Dornishmen arrived to take their seat toward the front door. Brienne noticed that there were absolutely no Valelords, Westerlords, or Ironborn. As Brienne examined the room further, she noticed the sigils of Velaryon and Celtigar. The Lords of the Crownlands weren't grouped together, but were scattered across the Throne room.

That's when the Kings entered the room.

Stannis Baratheon strode in first, looking dark and stormy as if he was off to the gallows. Renly followed, looking the opposite of his brother, cheerful, golden, happy. If Stannis ruled the Seven Kingdoms, sure, then it would be an efficient Realm. But when Renly ruled instead, it would be peaceful, bountiful, and beautiful. Robb Stark, who entered last, Brienne didn't know much about. He looked something midway between Stannis and Renly, but he was young. Too young to sit the Iron Throne.

Three chairs were set up before the Iron Throne. Lord Stark sat on the right chair. Lord Stannis on the left. King Renly sat in the center. _As it should be_. To the right of the Throne was a table with Lady Stark, the Imp, and a Maester sitting with parchment and pen. _What a strange way to make a King._

Brienne had no idea how the Kingsmoot would progress, but she was given authority to speak for her father and cast his vote (for Renly, of course). She had dreams of someone calling out the names of the Lords. When they called out the towns and keeps of the Reach, the Lords would declare their support for Stark or Baratheon. And then they would call, "Evenfall Hall? And Brienne would stand and shout, "For Renly!"

But she dreamt. Surely there were too many Lords to call them out one by one. A man in a leather doublet had a tripled sigil on his doublet. Brienne's eyes did not work as well as a hawk's, but she could see the colors of Winterfell, Storm's End, and Dragonstone. It seemed that the Small Council had formed its own sigil to remember the event: the Allied shield of Stark and the Baratheon brothers.

The man stepped beside the Throne, besides the King's chairs, and turned to bow before the monarchs aspirant. Each King nodded: Robb dutifully, Stannis grudgingly, and Renly with a bright smile breaching his face.

The man began to speak: "All hail the First Kingsmoot of the Iron Throne. Whoever sits it shall be King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

"Westeros had five Kings. Now there are three rightful ones. The forces of Winterfell, Storm's End, and Dragonstone have allied to defeat the foe Joffrey Baratheon and now lay claim to the Iron Throne. So there will be no further bloodshed, the Kings have decided to ask the Lords of Westeros who among them shall sit the Iron Throne."

He pulled out a sheet of parchment and continued, "I have here the First Kingsmoot Rules and Constraints…"


	5. Daryl I

**Daryl**

_Listen_. Were his instructions, _Listen, learn, and do what you think is right_. Daryl had never thought he would specifically "do what was right." He simply acted out of survival. Skagos was a hard land. Beyond-the-Wall even harder. Surely Daryl could handle King's Landing with no problem.

"Big city. Prone to plague." Dwite said.

"We never had plague." Daryl responded quickly, better to cut of Dwite before his book learning got in the way of things. Beyond-the-Wall, Dwite's ability to remember history has contributed to keeping warm, killing wildlings, or just to explain strange happenings. What little there was to know about wights, Dwite knew.

"Exactly, that's how we might get it. Maester Kaene…"

"Stop right there, Dwite. We ain't gonna catch plague. We're Stoneborn, so act like it." The two Skagosi were no strangers to horses, but their thick-footed, shaggy, przkagskis raised some eyebrows in this steamy southron rat's nest. Good thing it was Autumn. Daryl couldn't imagine journeying south of the Neck in Summer or Spring. Had they come during the wet season, Dwite may have been right about the plague issue.

"Name?"

"Daryl Magnar. heir to Merle Magnar of Kinghouse." He was too used to talking this way down south. In the North, people didn't ask a whole lot. Beyond-the-Wall, they never asked. The man was in a black doublet with an emblem, divided thrice. The direwolf of House Stark was on top, with two stags on the bottom. One stag was surrounded by Baratheon yellow, and the other by red. The man in the interesting doublet reviewed the parchment and made a check. Daryl assumed he was finding Kinghouse and writing in Daryl's name.

"Welcome to the First Kingsmoot, my Lord of Kinghouse."

"I'm no Lord." Daryl said, dismounting and handing his horse over to a squire who pulled the beast to the stables.

"Name?"

"Dwite Stane, Lord of Driftwood Hall." Dwite dismounted and handed his horse to the same squire.

"May we relieve you of your weapons before you enter the hall?"

Daryl and Dwite both stared down the man in the black doublet. Daryl kept his hand on the crossbow's strap, and Dwite on the pommel of his sword. The man finally caved to the Stoneborn gaze and said, "This way to the Red Keep."

The Stoneborn were led to the Throne Room: a place far too befitting their rank and birth. But they were officially landed Lords of Westeros, so they would have a voice in the Kingsmoot. The room was bigger than any building Daryl had ever seen. Marble columns reached higher than the biggest weirwoods and there were more people than Daryl could believe were ever packed into one room at the same time.

"Ugh, where did all of these people come from?" Dwite groaned.

"Same place we did. All over the place."

The southron spoke up, "Being from the North, you will be seated with the Northlords under the banner of Stark."

Daryl and Dwite both stared at the man once more, "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" the man asked, annoyed and incredulous all at the same time.

"We're Stoneborn. They're Northlords. Kind of like ice and fire. Don't really mix well." It was the only history that Daryl knew as well as Dwite: the persistent struggle of the Stoneborn to be free from the Kings (and later Lords) of Winterfell.

"Part of the process is to…"

"Just find us another seat." Daryl spoke in a low voice with just the slightest bark at the beginning. It was enough to shut the soft man up and find them a place at the empty Vale tables. Above them hung the banner of a blue eagle and crescent moon. A Lord or two sat around them carrying banners Daryl didn't recognize. To be fair, he only recognized a few banners from the North along with the ones of the King. Dragon for Targaryen, direwolf for Stark, and stag for Baratheon. Straight black for the Night's Watch. None of the Free Folk had banners, though Daryl could imagine what they'd be if they did: a lute for Mance, a skull and bones for Rattleshirt, runes for the Magnar of Thenn.

Several hundred feet before them sat the Iron Throne, formed of Aegon's enemies' swords all melted together via the dragonflame of Belarion the Black Dread. Some sights are less impressive when you see them in person.

To the left of the Throne was a table where a maester, a woman, and a dwarf sat with a set of papers and pens. When a skinny man who'd probably never held a sword delivered the "Rules and Constraints" Daryl found himself thinking, _So I can become a King, too?_

The man then announced, "To convince the Lords of Westeros, prospective Kings will speak on their own behalf. Their names will be cast into a cauldron and drawn to determine who shall speak first."

A cauldron appeared out of nowhere. The maester wrote down the names of the Kings on tiny pieces of parchment, folded them, and threw them into the cauldron. He presented them to the woman who picked out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to the dwarf. The dwarf opened the sheet and announced the winner, "Stannis Baratheon."

The man wearing the three-part sigil announced, "The first speaker will be Stannis Baratheon, the King in the Narrow Sea."

Stannis Baratheon stood and stepped before the other two Kings to take center-stage. He had a hard scowl on his face. He wore battle-scarred armor. Dwite told the story of Stannis' career, from Robert's Rebellion, to the war with the Ironborn. Stannis lasted months in a besieged Storm's End, and burned the Greyjoy fleet. He was currently the Lord of Dragonston and seized King's Landing bloodlessly. What little Daryl knew of the man made him think he'd do well Beyond the Wall.

Stannis opened his mouth and spoke in a declaring, booming voice. One that could easily shout, "Forward! Give them no mercy!" Daryl was partially shocked when those weren't his exact words:

**I am Stannis Baratheon. Your true King by rights. To vote for me is to vote for law, order, and justice. A history of Westeros, is proof that to further law and order gives rise to peace and prosperity in the realm. Seven Kingdoms fought against each other for centuries before Aegon came with his sisters and dragons and forged a single realm. When Daena claimed her brother's Throne, it resulted in the Dance with Dragons. When lawful bastards claimed the Throne of their younger trueborn brother, the Blackfyre Rebellion split the realm in two. It didn't end until Barristan the Bold slew Maelys the Monstrous on the Stepstones in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. And now, the Lannisters have attempted to claim the Iron Throne that was Baratheon by conquest and lineage. This Kingsmoot came to being to establish a further layer of law onto Westeros. It also entertains the gross possibility that the honorable Robb Stark, one of the First Men, would rule over the majority Andals, or that the _youngest _brother of our previous King would succeed him, though the elder brother is still alive. This First Kingsmoot, an honorable layer of law should serve only to confirm our previous laws. This way, justice and order will prevail through the Realm. Under my red and yellow banner, no Wildling will step south of Castle Black, nor any Ironborn set foot in the Realm. We shall at last, have Justice.**

Daryl briefly considered the possibility that Stannis Baratheon wasn't a Baratheon at all, but a Thenn or a Stoneborn. Either way, he knew who he was casting his vote for.


	6. Robb II

**Robb**

Renly's speech was quite different from his brother's. Where Stannis concentrated on the justice of his cause, Renly concentrated on the glory of Westeros and the greater one his reign would bring:

**What is it they call me? Oh yes, 'The King in Highgarden.' This is a myriad term, I promise you. They call me that because I was crowned first in Highgarden. But give me the opportunity, and I will be the King on the Iron Throne, the one, the only King in all of Westeros! Is Stannis a warrior? Yes. Will he bring the Iron Islands to heel? Yes. Will he throw back the Wildlings Beyond the Wall? Yes. Stannis is an excellent warrior, everyone knows that. But let me ask you, do we still think great soldiers make great kings? Joffrey was neither, and in that his true predecessor was Aerys the Mad. But Robert's military prowess could not be questioned… but did he rule the Realm wisely? Did he make us prosper? Instead we were in debt to Tywin Lannister, which only war could absolve. We are still in debt to the Most Devout and to the Iron Bank of Braavos. What we need now, more than ever, is a king who has sat on the Small Council, a king who's focus is on ruling the civil administration, a king the people love, and a king who can delegate military necessities where they are needed. My brother Stannis promises to throw back the Ironborn and the Wildlings, I have no doubt he will do it under whatever crown. But what sort of king do we want enthroned? A King loved by all, or a King feared by as many?**

At that, the King in Highgarden bowed and a round of applause slowly grew from the lowest of the Stormlords to the Reachlords of Highgarden and Oldtown. It became clear that Renly Baratheon had the strongest support of the three Kings sitting beneath the Iron Throne. The men of Renly's Rainbow Guard stood and followed Ser Loras' lead in beating their shields and shouting, "Renly! Renly!" Robb briefly thought it was somewhat wise to not begin chanting "Highgarden" in a room filled with men owing fealty to other cities.

There was no need to draw the only name left in the cauldron. When Renly was seated with a smug, satisfied grin plastered across his face, and a disgruntled, warrior's look across Stannis', the man in the black doublet stood in front of the Throne and announced, "The final speaker, Robb Stark, the King in the North and the King of the Trident."

Robb gave only a few public speeches and demonstrations in front of his men. Never in front of strangers who had to be convinced of his royalty. _What would father do? _He thought, _what would Ned Stark say in front of the Lords of Westeros?_ He stood where Stannis and Renly stood before him and opened his mouth to speak:

**My name is Robb Stark. I was crowned King in the North and King of the Trident in Riverrun almost two years ago. Since then, I have crossed the South, avenged my father by killing the usurper Joffrey _Lannister_. When Balon Greyjoy invaded the North, my home, I marched up the Kingsroad and took Winterfell and Deepwood Motte back from the reavers. I threw the Wildlings back across the Wall. And I killed the rebel Bastard of Bolton. I did not do this alone. Stannis Baratheon, the King in the Narrow Sea, marched with me to Winterfell and the Wall. Men from the Reach and the Stormlands marched alongside men of the North and the Riverlands. My father believed a Lord's duty was to lead by example. He was to lead with honor. To arbitrate disputes, but to otherwise let the lesser lords lead their own Keeps, argue their own disputes, and to lead as they saw fit. There is question whether I would bring worship of the Old Gods to the South. And I can tell you this: I will let Southerner lead southerners, and Northerners lead northerners. In the reign of King Aerys, it was House Stark that suffered. In the reign of King Joffrey, again it was House Stark that suffered. If I am chosen to lead as your King, I will sit the Iron Throne, but let North and South exist as friends and neighbors. Let the Old Gods and the New look across the Neck and shake hands. Let me be your King, and it will not be House Stark or the Old Gods that rule the Realm, it will be honor.**

For a moment there was silence. That moment seemed to stretch forever before the Greatjon Umber stood before the Northlords and declared in a great boom like thunder over rain, "_The King in the North!" _

Lord Karstark, Wylis Manderly, Lady Mormont, Lord Glover, and all the other Northlords soon took up the cry, "The King in the North!" Patrek Mallister and the Riverlords soon took up another cry to compliment the cry of Last Hearth, "The King of the Trident!"

"The King in the North!"

"The King of the Trident!"

"The King in the North!"

"The King of the Trident!"

It was all Robb could do to not smile. He managed, however, to resist the urge to look over at his mother. Lady Catelyn was all he had left of a family… he remembered his father and what it was like to be the last of your line. To be all that stands between House Stark and oblivion. As the cheer went on, Robb noticed there was a lord or two sworn to Storm's End or directly to the Iron Throne who found themselves taken with the Greatjon. The old Kings in the North – the Kings of Winter – never ruled south of the Neck. But right there beneath the Iron Throne, Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, Robb Stark, the Undefeated, felt a taste of victory. Victory of a different sort.


	7. Tyrion II

**Tyrion**

After hearing the three Kings for himself, Tyrion had to admit that Robb Stark would have been a better successor to his namesake than Robert's own lawful son Joffrey. After that speech he gave, it didn't sound too bad to Tyrion. Robb would probably appoint a Southern Hand to sit the Iron Throne while he ruled from Winterfell, only descending from his Northern keep to put down revolts. Tyrion liked the sound of that. He could be Lord of Casterly Rock in an almost-independent West.

The maester was a refreshing contrast to dusty, disloyal Pycelle. He was in his late 40s with a long chain. The gold link for finance was prominent. He stood in front of the table of the Small Council and began speaking, "For the North. How does Winterfell vote?"

The Greatjon Umber stood with a proclamation signed by the Lord of Winterfell, "For the _King in the North!_" the Northlords stood and followed his bellowing cry of "King in the North!"

Tyrion wrote down next to Winterfell: Stark.

"Do any abstain?"

A young man with a crossbow slung across his back and a green lobster sigil stood and said, "Magnar of Kinghouse. Can't vote for a Stark. But I like Stannis there."

His other Skagosi friend stood up and said, "Dwite Stane. Of Driftwood Hall. I agree with my Magnar friend."

Tyrion found Kinghouse and Driftwood Hall: S. Baratheon.

The maester moved on, "For the Trident. How does Riverrun vote?"

Edmure Tully stood and announced, "For the King of the Trident!" Tyrion noticed that all of these titles could get very confusing. But when the Riverlords stood up and declared "The King of the Trident!" Greatjon-style, it was obvious. Tyrion found Riverrun on his sheet and wrote: Stark.

"Do any abstain?"

Ser Ronald the Bad stood up and and began to speak, "It has come to the attention of my father, blind in his old age, that Atranta would rather seek the support of a different King. Robb Stark, the Lord of Winterfell is among the best of warriors. But not for our House. We were at the field South-of-God's-Eye. We saw which army it was that took the day. Without the King in Highgarden, Robb Stark would have been defeated. House Vance cast its vote for King Renly."

Atranta: R. Baratheon.

"For the Vale. How does the Eyrie vote?"

Catelyn Stark stood and said, "We have received neither messenger nor raven from the Eyrie. Though I believe there are some Lords of the Vale here with us."

As it turned out, the Lords of the Vale here to answer were from the Sisters, the Paps, and the Pebble. Five islands in the Bite between the Vale and the North.

Lord Tristan Sunderland stood and said, "I'm afraid we cannot in good faith vote for a House we fought so hard to be free of. Sisterton casts its vote for the rightful King Stannis." Did Sisterton believe that Stannis would station a fleet there? Tyrion couldn't say he was _too _surprised. The maester confirmed that House Sunderland's sworn houses of Sweetsister, Longsister, and Littlesister all voted for Stannis, but Tyrion marked them down before he could finalize the tally.

Lord Daemon Elesham stood and cast his vote for Robb Stark. Immediately Lord Elwin Pryor stood and said, "Here, here!" Tyrion marked down two more votes for Robb Stark and by The Eyrie: N. Voting.

"For the Reach. How does Highgarden vote?"

Despite the exercise in futility, the plump Lord Tyrell stood and cast his vote for his good-son R. Baratheon. As for abstentions, only Alester Florent cast Brightwater Keep's vote for S. Baratheon. House Florent was playing a dangerous game. Tallying the Reach's vote easily put Renly in the lead and the Florents just cast their card for a sinking ship. Of course… if Stannis _did _end up winning.

"For the Stormlands. How does Storm's End vote?"

Ser Cortnay Penrose stood with a parchment signed by Renly and a recently broken seal, "For Renly Baratheon!"

"Do any abstain?"

The Onion Knight, Ser Davos Shorthand, stood and said, "I'm afraid Lord Renly will have to excuse me. I've sailed with Stannis Baratheon for many years. He has my vote."

Ser Aemon Estermont agreed, "Following the female line of our House, Stannis Baratheon is the rightful King. We love Renly, but he's a usurper to his brother's Throne."

Tyrion marked down the appropriate votes.

"For Dorne. How does Sunspear vote?"

The Dornishmen were mostly here. The Red Viper was dressed comfortably in an orange doublet with the Martell sun and spear sigil. But he stood with a wry smile and said, "Dorne abstains from voting currently."

Sunspear: N. Voting. Perhaps if Ser Kevan could get enough of the Westerlords to vote in time, Tyrion could work things in Casterly Rock's favor and get N. Voting to sit the Iron Throne.

"Do any abstain?"

To his surprise, a few of the Stony Dornish stood and cast their vote for separate parties. Lady Larra Blackmont cast her vote for _S_. Baratheon. Perhaps House Blackmont assumed the King in the Narrow Sea would be more just where the King in Highgarden would _clearly _favor the House that made him King: Dorne's mortal enemy. Perhaps more hilariously, House Manwoody and House Wyl voted for Robb Stark. Politics sure does make strange bedfellows of us all.

"For the Crownlands. How does Dragonstone vote?"

Lady Selyse stood and Tyrion shuddered, _No wonder Stannis only has one daughter_. She held a parchment casting Stannis' vote for the King in the Narrow Sea. Since most of the Houses were sworn to King's Landing and not Dragonstone, the maester went through them one-by-one. Only House Slynt – which shouldn't be a house at all – voted for Renly. The rest voted for Stannis under the premise that the Crownlords are sworn to the Iron Throne, not to a King or a House. Therefore, since the laws of the Iron Throne are to pass to the eldest son, or the eldest brother when that is not an option, Stannis is the rightful King. The Brunes, however, cast their lot for N. Voting. The Knight of Fool's Castle, Ser Perkin Follard, cast his vote for Robb Stark citing Trial by Combat. Robb Stark killed Joffrey Baratheon, so he must be the Gods' chosen one. Lord Gyles Rosby managed to stop coughing long enough to agree and cast his lot for Robb Stark, and Lady Tanda Stokeworth seemed to forget that the Lord of Winterfell was already married and cast her vote for him as well.

All in all, the First Vote wasn't an entirely excruciating experience. Tyrion tallied the votes and found that there was no winner. Another night would go by without a King on the Iron Throne. But in order:

**R. Baratheon: 70 (38%)**

**R. Stark: 41 (23%)**

**N. Voting: 39 (21%)**

**S. Baratheon: 32 (18%)**

The Lords of Westeros were dismissed and went to gamble, whore, or play politics for the evening. Tyrion headed to the rookery to send Ser Kevan a raven. As the Lord of Casterly Rock, he would _not _have the West absent for the making of history…


	8. Jaime I

**Jaime**

The Kingsroad was a long and lonely one. He could still swear that men from Castle Cerwyn were rustling in the bushes all through the Barrowlands, the Neck, the Riverlands, and the West. Jaime had to admit to himself that he wouldn't believe himself safe until he was in the gates of Casterly Rock. _The Others take Robb Stark. The Others take Stannis Baratheon too. But more importantly, the Others take that hell-bound Cerwyn boy. _

Even the thought of Daeron Snow, the Bastard of Castle Cerwyn wandering through the Seven Hells wasn't enough to make Jaime feel any better.

"Everything all right, milord?" Ser Harrin Allstone was apparently required to ask him that every damn day. And every day crossing the North and the Neck, Jaime answered, "Everything is fine."

Finally, he stopped answering Ser Harrin, and Ser Aemon Nyghtdrygyn started answering for him, "O'course he's not a'right. _Seven hells, _Ser Jaime's lost his 'and!"

On and on it went from Winterfell to the Rock. _Which of us died and went to hell, Daeron? Maybe that's what hell is, wandering around thinking you're still alive when you're not. _

Every night, Jaime dreamed the same thing. Robb Stark sat upon the Lord of Winterfell's Throne and declared Jaime a murderer. Jaime would then insist, "I didn't kill Brandon Stark! The boy lived."

Robb Stark would still condemn him. Saying the attempt was enough to constitute murder and that Jaime must pay the ultimate price. Ser Jaime would protest, "No! I demand trial by combat." Of course, everyone knew he was going to do that. The Greatjon Umber leapt at the opportunity to crush Jaime's head in, "A foe like you? How hard will it be to miss the lumbering Greatjon?" Rickard Karstark was not far behind him, "Come at me, Karstark, let's see how brittle those old bones are." Finally, a host of spry, smaller, young fellows came forward. And Daeron Snow, the Bastard of Castle Cerwyn, was chosen.

Ser Jaime shouldn't have doubted the lad. He was good. Too good. No one but a Knight of the Kingsguard should have reason to be as good as Daeron Snow was. Jaime could still hear the clash of steel between them in the Hall. Daeron swung, bringing his shield against Jaime's with a _crash_. Jaime feinted and struck, but it fell on Daeron's axe sigil, _clang_. Sword against sword, shields beat against each other until they were both tired and their swings lagged behind their steps.

Finally, Jaime missed a parry. He _missed _a _parry_.

Fortunately, Daeron missed his mark.

Both fighters were too tired. Jaime missed Daeron's sword and hit empty air. Daeron missed Jaime's neck, and took off his hand.

With either adrenaline, or the warrior's fury, Ser Jaime Lannister charged the Bastard, and choked him to death with the top edge of his shield. Only after the light leaves Daeron's eyes does Jaime wake up and notice that it wasn't a dream. Daeron really did die. Jaime really did lose a hand.

He left Winterfell with Robb Stark's words at his back, "Good luck on the Kingsroad." Jaime was no fool. He had to pass Castle Cerwyn on his way home, and Rickard Karstark was still out for blood. Ser Jaime, in his gold armor, found the first hedge knights he could find and offered them each a piece of Kingsguard armor if they escorted him safely to Casterly Rock.

Ser Harrin Allstone wanted "the Kingslayer's breastplate." Whether he wanted to sell it and buy himself a small Keep, or keep it and tell people Ser Jaime Lannister wore it even he couldn't decide.

Ser Aemon Nyghtdrygyn demanded the helmet. He never said he was going to do anything with it except wear it. Jaime demanded they sleep at inns – in separate rooms – to make sure they didn't kill him and make off with the armor. Ser Barrin Red Snow and Ser Robert Iron never said anything that didn't immediately pertain to direction, food, or payment. It was obvious Ser Aemon fancied himself a knight, Ser Harrin was only familiar with the stories, but Ser Barrin and Ser Robert were only a step up from sellswords. They scared Ser Jaime the most.

"Less than a day's ride, Ser Jaime." Ser Barrin Red Snow never smiled. He and Stannis would get along.

"Indeed." Jaime said, ignoring Barrin's insinuations.

"No man would dare harm you this close to the Rock. Methinks it's time we was paid so we could head back to the Trident where our services are needed most."

"I told you once, I've told you a million times, Red Snow, you won't receive payment until I am safely within the custody of Lannister men. You'd be surprised the quality of men who dared me in my own homeland." _Except I did not need to rely on hedge knights back then_.

As it turned out, Ser Barrin was right: the party of hedge knights and Ser Jaime reached Casterly Rock before the sun set over the western Sea. To Jaime's surprise, Vylarr rode out to meet them with an escort of Lannister guards in lion-crested helms. Vylarr, with his gold beard and bald head looked as surprised as ever, "Ser Jaime?"

"Greetings, captain." He said, "How fares the Rock, these days?"

"It's… doing well. Who are your companions?" as Vylarr finished his sentence, Ser Aemon began his.

"Ser Jaime, we were promised…"

"If I give you my small clothes, will you promise to take a vow of silence?" Jaime barked back. He turned to the Rock's captain-of-the-guard and started laughing, "As you can imagine, I had so few friends in Winterfell so I had to pay such illustrious warriors with the only gold I had." And just like that, Ser Jaime Lannister dismounted, stripped himself of his golden armor, and gave it piece-by-piece to seven hedge knights. All knights in attendance, hedge or otherwise, could believe their eyes, "Let the Realm know," Jaime began, "the Kingslayer exists under a soot of armor. Now, Vylarr, if you would be so kind as to show me into the castle?"

"But, Ser Jaime, your hand…"

"Yes, I will tell everyone what happened. I promise." Ser Jaime watched the hedge knights turn around and depart with his Kingsguard armor as he was surrounded by Lannister guards and taken into the Rock. _The Others take you, Ser Barrin Red Snow_.

Vylarr, ugly and fearsome as he may be, was all too welcome a sight for Jaime, "I missed the war." Jaime told him inside the gate, "Captured at the Whispering Wood, jailed in Riverrun, on trial at Winterfell. Bloody nightmare, I tell you."

"Is that your tale?" Vylarr asked.

"No. Draw me a bath and prepare a feast. After everyone in the castle has eaten, I will tell the story of Ser Jaime the One-Handed." _It's at least a better nickname than Kingslayer_.

Vylarr went to give the orders for Ser Jaime's bath and banquet. When he arrived in his old solar, he found a tub with scalding water and a pretty handmaid laying out clean small clothes and moving things around the room. It was clear she wanted not only a good look at the famous Ser Jaime, but also of his mutilation. Jaime was certain he did not disappoint. When he was finally comfortable, letting the dust and dirt from Winterfell to Casterly Rock soak out of his pores and float into the tub, he turned to the girl and said, "Come, have a look if you must."

He held out his stump.

The girl stared at the dirty bandages hesitantly, not sure what to say or think.

"It would actually be very nice if you could change the bandage for me."

That made her feel useful. She left the room and came back hurriedly to unwrap and burn his old bandage and wrap him fresh ones. Jaime was content with not looking at the wound.

The door opened loudly and a man in heavy armor walked inside. He had the face of a bulldog but the hair of a Lannister lion, "Uncle Kevan."

"Ser Jaime. The rumors of your demise were unfounded."

"You sound disappointed."

"We all assumed it was a matter of time before Robb Stark took your head."

"Close. Just my hand." Jaime showed him the stump.

Ser Kevan did not look amused, "He left you mutilated?"

"No, I demanded trial by combat. I count myself the luckier man."

"Who was it?"

"The Bastard of Castle Cerwyn. I didn't even know they had one."

"We live in strange times. All men have bastards nowadays." Ser Kevan looked at his nephew knowingly. Jaime wasn't sure how to respond, _Yes, I know you know. Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella should just be named Hill? Is that it? Or would you prefer Lannister? I would. You should have let me marry Cersei. You should have let us do things the Targaryen way. _

"If Ned Stark could be so flippant with his honor, I guess any one is at risk."

Ser Kevan changed the subject. Jaime couldn't say he wasn't happy it didn't happen, "Things are in motion. You'll need to be brought up to speed soon."

"I thought I was the one with the tale to tell?"

"Oh, we'll all be delighted to hear of your Trial in Winterfell. But soon we will have a new king. Your brother has informed me that the West has an opportunity to _choose _that new king."

This surprised Jaime very, _very,_ much, "Didn't the Lannisters lose the war?"

"Oh indeed we have. Reports from King's Landing indicate that both Joffrey and Cersei have been executed. Joffrey in combat with Robb Stark for the murder of his father. Cersei was given to Stannis' headsman for knowingly denying him the Iron Throne."

_Cersei_…

"And how does this result in the Lannisters helping to choose the next king?"

"Tyrion works his magic. He worked a deal with Stark and Baratheon. If three-quarters of the West will swear fealty to the Iron Throne once more, they can join in the Kingsmoot taking place as we speak."

"A _Kingsmoot_? What in the seven hells is a _Kingsmoot_?"

"A meeting of Kings." Ser Kevan answered rather academically, "an Ironborn term they adopted to experiment with systems of government. In the end, they decided an election should be held. Every landed House in Westeros will cast one vote for who they think should be King."

"Ah… so who does the West want for a King? Our mortal enemy Robb Stark? The man who killed their liege lord in open battle, Renly Baratheon? Or the man who murdered Cersei, Stannis?"

Ser Kevan smiled an evil smile, "Any man with fifteen supporting Lords may be considered for the Throne."

"_Fifteen_ _Lords_?" that seemed low to Jaime. Maybe he should put his fingers – all five of them – out and see how many lords would support Jaime's claim to the Iron Throne, "So who are we putting up for consideration. Surely the Realm can't be ready for another Lannister?"

"No. I don't think so. But we've heard rumors of other claimants."

Jaime was perplexed. Who would he rather have as King: Robb, Renly, or Stannis? Who in the Realm could stand up to them… and _win? _"Like who?"


	9. Arianne I

**Arianne**

"We are not in Dorne any more." Arianne said to Ser Arys. Her white knight was no longer in his Kingsguard armor. He was wearing a borrowed suit of light Martell armor, the sun and spear emblazoned across his chest. Arianne thought it would be wise if they didn't draw attention to themselves on the trip. The Boneway was tricky enough. The Stony Dornish were not to be trusted with their coup. They were too close to the rest of the Realm. Too _Andal_.

Most of the Dornishmen she could trust were already in the capital with her uncle. They arrived here to receive Ser Gregor's head, and instead were invited to join in the choosing of a King. Dorne had a real shot at making a difference. She was always the odd-man-out of the Realm. Even more so than the North. But now, Arianne could be Queenmaker. She might not sit the Iron Throne, but she would sit the _Small Council_.

"No. We're certainly not." Ser Arys gazed up at Aegon's High Hill. The difference between Joffrey's King's Landing and Catelyn Stark's King's Landing must have been too striking for him. The streets were clean, rumors of starvation seemed unwarranted. Blackwater Bay was full of ships, and the taverns were full of laughter and song, not scared silence and groans.

Her uncle Oberyn met them near the Great Sept and led their retinue to an inn with an enormous view of the Sept. The retinue split into their rooms while Arianne, Arys, Garin and Darkstar met the Red Viper in his room. Harmen Uller, Myria Jordayne, Ser Ryon Allyrion, and Ser Deziel Dalt all sat or stood around the room.

"At last, we're all here." Oberyn said. All eyes were on Ser Arys. Everyone knew that the conspiracy could be undone by a single thread, but it wouldn't even be a conspiracy without Oakheart's approval.

"I think we need to address this condition first," Harmen Uller began, "this one." He looked Ser Arys in the eyes, "He wears Dornish dress. It doesn't make him one of us."

Oberyn spoke before Arianne could protest, "Ser Arys is our honored guest. We would not have gotten this far without his support. As Arianne assures us, the white knight would have peace in the Realm. It serves no one to allow war between the Reach and Dorne."

Ser Arys nodded at that. The Sand Snakes had a tendency to let that old wound fester. The Sunspear-Highgarden feud went back to the time when the Seven Kingdoms were seven kingdoms and not seven provinces. A Reachlord was once made tyrant over Dorne and that gash had never fully healed. It was every Dornishman's fantasy to sack Oldtown, capture Highgarden, and install someone with Rhoynish blood over the Reach, "Renly Baratheon is married to the Tyrell whore. He combines the worst of our enemies in an alliance." Arianne said.

Her uncle replied, "Renly Baratheon has won the first vote. But he still needs to double his number before he can sit the Iron Throne."

"I heard that the Manwoody, Blackmont, and Wyl cast their votes already?" Garin spoke up.

"They did. One for Stannis the other two for Robb Stark. We should have spread our votes around like they did. It would have seemed less conspicuous for Dorne to be absent from the choosing. Though at least we were present. The Vale's absence is much more mysterious. Perhaps the other contenders think we're just biding our time, waiting to see who will offer Sunspear the best deal in exchange for votes."

"Has any one?" Arianne said.

"No. But no matter. We shall declare tomorrow." Oberyn walked towards his niece, "Now if you'll all excuse me, I'd like to talk with Arianne. Ser Arys, if you can go retrieve our Queen?"

They all left. Most of them to their own rooms or somewhere else, Ser Arys to a different place entirely, "How noticeable was your retinue on the Kingsroad?" Oberyn asked when all the others had left.

"Did you hear word of it here in King's Landing?"

"No more than any of the other caravans coming here. This Kingsmoot has Westeros in an uproar. All the Sisterlords have come. The Imp is surely sending raven after raven to the West. Hightowers are coming in from Oldtown by the dozen. Cousins I've never even heard of are here to cast their lot and play their game. Dorne needs this more than any of the other kingdoms."

"Does it look like we have a shot with our Queen?"

The Red Viper's face darkened, "I highly doubt she will sit the Iron Throne. At least not after this Kingsmoot is over with. But Dorne can still be Kingmaker. Renly Baratheon is the enemy, but there are two possibilities to arise: either we steal enough Lords to claim for Stannis, then make Stannis a deal for positions on the Small Council and other concessions, or we do the same in favor of Robb Stark, perhaps betrothe your own brood with his when either of you have them. It's a shame Robb Stark is already married. A marriage proposal could easily sinch this Kingsmoot. And after Robb Stark dies, a Northern-Rhoynish monarch will sit the Iron Throne. Imagine the faces of all the Lords from Highgarden to Storm's End…" Oberyn had a cruel smile on his face.

Arianne thought about it. She never did confirm whether her uncle bed other men, but he must have thought Robb Stark was handsome. She would have to see for herself. Her own father only offered her old men and cripples. Her uncle wanted to offer her a King, "So you trust Stannis and Robb?"

"I trust only our Queen. But Stannis is preferable to Renly, and Robb is preferable to Stannis. Stannis has no affection for Highgarden. And Robb would certainly sympathize with Dorne, the North being in a similar predicament politically and ethnically. We'll play this game, and make sure Dorne comes out on top."

"What do you know of Robb Stark so far, uncle?" Arianne felt she needed to get to know him. As Oberyn Martell implied, he could be a _very _powerful ally.

"We entered the city after it fell to the Allied banners. We were told that Robb Stark had just condemned Joffrey to death and Stannis had just condemned Cersei. Rumor had it that Joffrey would demand a trial by combat, knowing his cause was just and that the Gods would always choose the rightful king over a separatist traitor. Men encouraged him to appoint one of the Kingsguard as a champion, but Joffrey insisted that he always wanted to try 'real steel' against Robb. You would've thought the whole city turned out to watch two Kings kill each other. Joffrey, of course, had almost no idea how to use a sword. No matter how he came at Robb, the Young Wolf managed to knock his sword out of hand and wait for him to pick it up. Finally, he'd had enough, knocked Joffrey to the ground and made him beg for his life. Joffrey held up a hand to defend himself. The Young Wolf chopped it off. After Joffrey finished screaming and cursing, the Young Wolf turned to the crowd, 'In the name of Lord Eddard Stark, I Robb, Lord of Winterfell, King and Warden in the North, sentence you to die.'" Oberyn took one finger and drew it across his neck, "And off came his head. Joffrey never stood a chance."

"You seem to admire him, uncle."

"More than you know."

"So we put our faith in the Young Wolf?"

"No. We put our faith in the Queen. Renly is the enemy, never forget. Stannis is preferable, but let us never confuse him for an ally or a friend. With Robb Stark there may be some leeway. But the goal is to get Dorne as far ahead as we can, and then try to sit the Queen."

There was a light knock at the door before Ser Arys entered with the Queen. She looked so regal in her red and yellow dress, golden curls flowing down her shoulders, "You wanted me, Prince Oberyn?"

"Of course, sweetling." The Red Viper said, "It's time you heard: tomorrow the whole Realm will know Queen Myrcella will claim her father's Throne."


	10. Davos I

**Davos**

Davos began his morning with two eggs, some toast, and a strip of bacon. He purchased a few pies on the Street of Flour and took them to Flea Bottom to give out to some children. He remembered his own childhood, and the few times strangers had been kind enough to give him food he could only imagine stealing. Who knows, after this whole Kingsmoot was over and Davos could return to the seas, he might just take on a few as cabin boys to learn aboar the _Black Bertha_. It'd be a better life than learning to be a pickpocket in King's Landing.

Before lunch, Davos journeyed back to the Red Keep. He showed his sigil and documentation to Catelyn Stark's bureaucracy and was let into the Throne Room. Aside from the Valelords, Ironlords, and Westerlords, Davos seemed to be the last one to arrive in the room. Davos sat next to Ser Aemon Estermont, the only other Stormlord to support King Stannis. They nodded at each other and shared small talk about the weather. It was getting colder.

Finally, the maester asked for silence and asked the Lords of Westeros if there was any other name to consider. Davos was shocked when Oberyn Martell stood up in polished armor bearing the sun and spear of his House. He carried a spear with a golden head and a halfhelm as bright as gold.

"Do you have a name to offer Prince Oberyn?"

"I do." The Red Viper began stepping forward towards the Iron Throne near the three Kings:

**My Lords of Westeros, long has the Realm been united ever since Daeron the Young Dragon tried to defeat us in combat. He failed. Daeron the Good came and promised his wife, Myriah Martell, that Dornish law will always rule in Dorne. Daeron II was Robert Baratheon's great-great-great grandfather. So by lineage, Joffrey Baratheon was the rightful King of Dorne. But Joffrey is dead, slain as much by his foolish mouth as the Young Wolf's steel. Where was Joffrey's heir when he was slain? In Dorne. And by rights, the Throne belongs to Myrcella Baratheon. Queen Myrcella, please come take your rightful place beside these Kings apparent.**

The entire room was silent. From the front of the Dornish table, a short girl with blond, curly hair shyly stepped forward towards Oberyn's outstretched hand. He knelt and she slowly came forward and put her tiny hand in his. He ascended, pulled a chair from the back of the room, and sat Myrcella next to Robb Stark. Again, silence in the hall.

And then, like a crack of thunder, pandemonium erupted. First it was Stannis, "Absolutely not!" Stannis stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger at Oberyn Martell:

**What did we fight for if not to rid ourselves of Illborn monarchs? Did we go to war and behead Joffrey the Illborn only to have Myrcella the Illborn? No woman shall sit the Iron Throne, and the Realm is _not_ Dorne. It was Daeron's insistence to bring the Dornish to court that sparked the Blackfyre Rebellion… that and _bastards of incest_. Why would we plunge the war back into war as destructive as that?**

Oberyn replied, "What proof do you have, Lord Stannis, that Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen were born of incestuous seed? Or baseborn at that?"

Stannis began to narrate the entire mystery behind the strange activity in King's Landing. Behind the Baratheon line. Behind Joffrey's odd appearance in comparison with history. Finally, he outlined Jon Arryn's murder and the beginning of the War of the Five Kings.

The Red Viper interrupted him, "So you refuse to believe, Lord Stannis, that children might look like their mother? That's thin evidence to spark a war. It sounds to me like the murder of Ned Stark was both the war's beginning, and Joffrey's death sentence. That does not delegitimize Myrcella. She is the monarch by rights, and I declare that we should have a vote."

Davos could not believe his ears. Myrcella Baratheon a Dornish pawn. King Stannis never expected that he would be fighting Cersei's brood _after _that war. The vote was then counted. The maester declared, "For Dorne. How does Sunspear vote?"

"For Myrcella, the Queen in Dorne!"

"Do any abstain?"

None. Blackmont, Wyl, and Manwoody all followed Sunspear to support Myrcella. But when the rest of the Lords were consulted, there wasn't a single change.

**R. Baratheon: 70 (39%)**

**R. Stark: 39 (21%)**

**S. Baratheon: 31 (17%)**

**N. Voting: 25 (14%)**

**M. Baratheon: 17 (9%)**

Davos felt relieved that at least Stannis was not only beating his (lawful) niece, but also N. Voting. What an embarrassment it was during the first vote when King Stannis was losing the election to a lack of voting.

Debate began. The Lords of the North began to debate the Lords of Dorne as the Reachlords began to argue with the Riverlords. Catelyn Stark shouted for silence once more as the maester began to declare that the Small Council is going to decide how to solve this predicament. At this rate, the Lords of Westeros would continue voting ad infinitum and the Iron Throne would remain empty forever.

As the maester, the Imp, and Catelyn Stark were deep in conversation when the doors to the Throne Room opened with a loud crash as they beat against the wall. In walked at least twenty Septons led by the barefoot High Septon in a brown cloth and carrying an ancient staff of weirwood. He marched right to the front of the room amidst complete silence as the Lords from the North to Dorne wanted to hear what the avatar of the Seven had to say.

Catelyn Stark stepped forward and curtsied, "Your Holiness. What can we do for you today."

The High Septon spoke with a voice unbecoming of the Gods, "We heard there was a meeting of Kings here beneath the Iron Throne."

"Indeed, Your Holiness, there is."

"Then it is the duty of the Faith to speak in favor of the Gods' chosen." That's when Davos Seaworth could not believe his ears, he was hearing the declaration, the words of his God, and they were telling him something he had never thought was possible:

**Noble Lords and Ladies of Westeros! Did you intend to choose a King without consulting your Gods? The Realm is Seven Kingdoms. And the Gods are personified in each of them. But just as the Seven Kingdoms are all aspects of the One Realm, so the Seven Gods are all connected aspects of the One Godhead. So while the Lords of Winterfell, the Eyrie, Riverrun, Highgarden, Casterly Rock, Storm's End, Pyke, and Sunspear may all choose how to run their part of the Realm, how can we have a man sit the Iron Throne who does not follow the Holy Faith as piously as he can?**

**Robb Stark is a noble and honorable man. The Lord of Winterfell would lead us wisely, but he worships trees with blood-red leaves. He cannot be our King.**

**Myrcella Baratheon is a kind and beautiful child. Is she the baseborn product of incest? Only the Father can judge justly. But can a girl sit the Iron Throne? No. She cannot be our Queen.**

**Stannis Baratheon worships a demon. He has forsaken the gods of his forefathers and taken up with the fire god of Asshai. Can we have a demon of the east rule the Iron Throne, rule the Realm? No. The last King we had obsessed with fire nearly burnt the Realm to ashes. We should not have another one. He cannot be our King.**

**Renly Baratheon worships the Seven. Renly Baratheon has been to the Starry Sept in Oldtown, the Stoney Sept in the Riverlands, and all over the Realm united people from all walks of life into the unity of Crown and Sept. Look across the hill to the Great Sept of Baelor. Only the unity of these two hills can keep the Realm as one. Renly Baratheon is the chosen King of God.**

**May the Father judge him justly. May the Mother care for him. May the Warrior give him courage. May the Maiden bestow him purity. May the Smith make him hardy. May the Crone give him wisdom. And may the Stranger leave him be.**

The maester then started to tally the vote. The vote was being tallied and Ser Davos suddenly found himself at a crossroads. He remembered the day the Red Woman dragged the wooden Gods to the beach. The Mother that burned stayed in Davos' dreams. She begged Davos for an answer. The Father would surely judge him harshly.

But Stannis… Stannis gave him everything. Stannis brought him up from a smuggler from Flea Bottom to a landed Knight. The Mother gave him sons, the Smith gave him a ship, but King Stannis gave him a life.

"For the Stormlands. How does Storm's End vote?"

Ser Cortnay held up Renly's declaration voting for himself.

"Do any abstain?"

Time ticked. The Knight of Greenstone was silent. Davos could not believe himself. His King was failing. Should he stand? Did he follow his Gods, or his King? Was he being forced to choose? Who would be more understanding: the Gods, or the King?

_Not today_, Davos thought. He stood and said, "Cape Wrath for Stannis Baratheon." _May the Father judge me harshly. _


	11. Brienne II

**Brienne**

Brienne was never religious. But she was raised in the Faith. She knew the names of the Gods, what they stood for, and could even quote some of the _Seven-Pointed Star_, though she couldn't say where in the book they were located.

But King Renly was the Gods' chosen one. Not King Stannis. Not King Robb. And not Queen Myrcella. King _Renly_. Brienne was all too happy to watch the vote come in.

"For the North. How does Winterfell vote?"

The Greatjon Umber stood and declared, "For the _right _Gods! For the _King in the North!_" The rest of the Lords of the North shouted their approval. Tree-worshippers that declared for their tree-worshipping king.

"Do any abstain?"

Those two Skagosi stood and declared for Stannis once more.

And then Wyman Manderly stood and said, "I still want the King in the North to win. But let it not be said that House Manderly did not support the Gods of their forebears. White Harbor declares for Lord Renly."

"For the Riverlands. How does Riverrun vote?"

Edmure Tully stood and declared in a voice only half as booming as the Greatjon's, "How can the New Gods disapprove of their forebears? Riverrun casts its lot with the _King of the Trident!_" Half the Riverlords then repeated, "_The King of the Trident!" _

The Lord of Atranta and the Lord of Darry cast their lot for their Gods' chosen one, and the ancient feud between Blackwood and Bracken flared when the Lord of Stone Hedge declared for Renly. The Lord of the Twins, of course, stayed for Robb Stark. Lord Walder Frey wanted to grandsire a King. Not just a Lord of Winterfell.

The Eyrie was still silent. But the few Lords of the Vale here from the Bite changed their vote. Daemon Elesham from the Paps stayed with Robb Stark. But the Sistermen and the Pebble cast their vote for King Renly.

The Crownlords went half for Renly, and half for Stannis. The Reach and the Stormlands stayed for Renly with only one or two lords changing from Stannis. Dorne once again went entirely for Myrcella. When the maester read off the numbers Brienne felt a smile grow across her face. She was thankful for the helm.

**R. Baratheon: 87 (48%)**

**R. Stark: 34 (19%)**

**N. Voting: 24 (13%)**

**S. Baratheon: 19 (11%)**

**M. Baratheon: 17 (9%)**

Renly took half the Realm in a bloodless battle. Only one sixth of the Lords to go. Surely now that everyone saw Renly sweep the Westeros, there was no way a tree-worshipper, or a demon-worshipper, or a bastard girl could stand up to the Gods' chosen one!

As pandemonium began to erupt once more, the maester stood in front of the Kings and declared, "The voting will resume tomorrow! May the Gods go with you all."

Brienne and the Rainbow Guard gathered around to escort their King. Renly smiled like he was winning the Iron Throne, "Ser Loras, what's the condition of the Dragonpit this afternoon?"

"I will check with Catelyn Stark, Your Grace." Ser Loras left to check the condition of the Dragonpit.

"Brienne, I need you for a different task." Brienne stepped forward ahead of her brothers.

"Anything, Your Grace."

"Come with me. Ser Bryce, make sure only those with my seal enter the Tower." Brienne followed the King. They met Lords Tyrell and Tarly in the solar standing over a map of Westeros. Tiny flags were planted over the Realm showing Renly's victories. Renly's green swept the south from Oldtown to Storm's End. The Lords were in the process of changing flags in the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and the North with green ones for Renly. Stannis's red was clearly in retreat while all of Dorne was covered in orange and the North was swept by Stark gray.

"So, we've established a beachhead in the North." The King said, sitting at the head of the table, Beyond the Wall.

"The Manderlys have opened up the possibility of taking the North. Unless a few Dornish Lords can be swayed, then Myrcella will remain at 17. Stannis has a much more tenuous grasp of his holding. If we can take five lords, we can boot him out of the running. If we can sway Robb Stark to cast his vote for us," Lord Tyrell declared with a smile, "then the power of Winterfell and Riverrun will put us right to the 2/3 margin. Victory will belong to King Renly."

"We won't even _have _to worry about Stannis." Lord Tarly probably never smiled, just like the King's brother.

"I never was." Renly stood and pointed at Winterfell, "We can deal with Robb Stark. What they want is freedom. We'll give them a measure of it."

"What of the Florents, or the Onion Knight?" Lord Tyrell asked. The Florents had always been Highgarden's enemy since the Conquest.

"We'll deal with the Florents when I sit the Iron Throne. They'll rue the day they crossed to Stannis. As for the Onion Knight, he's harmless. He owes his title to Stannis, so he will stay loyal to him until the end. When I sit the Iron Throne, he'll show me the same loyalty. Have no fear." That's when he turned to, "Brienne, please go to Robb Stark and invite him here for some wine. I don't see why two Kings can't treat with each other as we did on the battlefield."

Brienne questioned why she was asked and not Lord Commander Ser Loras, or one of the King's supportive lords. But she kept her questions to herself and went to the Lord of Winterfell's tower. When a woman with a mace and a bear sigil stopped her, Brienne told the woman she had word from King Renly.

"I'll tell the King of Winter you have a message."

_The King of Winter… does that make Renly the King of Summer? _

"The King will see you now."

Brienne felt anger suddenly rising in her. There's only one King, and he's the Gods' chosen one, "Thank you," was all she said.

Brienne was led to the solar where Robb Stark sat with his wife, a young Frey girl, "What can I do for you, ser?"

"Brienne, my lord. I have been sent here by King Renly."

Robb looked at his wife, "What for?"

"He summons you to his solar."

"King Renly sends a woman to escort me back to his solar?"

"Did you not send your own mother to entreat with him at Bitterbridge?" Brienne responded.

Robb nodded, "So I did." He stood and turned to his wife, "I'll return shortly."

Brienne then led the King of Winter to her King of Summer. Victory was at hand. She entered the solar with Robb Stark behind her and declared, "Your Grace, I present the Lord of Winterfell."

"Excellent! Thank you, Brienne."

Ser Loras turned with a scowl. He never respected Brienne, but she wasn't sure if he was scowling at her, or the false King.

"My Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North! Come and sit. Don't mind the Rainbow Guard. We'll be watching them this evening. My men are already clearing the Dragonpit for a small tourney. Melee only. You'll come and watch, won't you?"


	12. Jaime II

**Jaime**

"And who will Casterly Rock cast their vote for, Ser Jaime?" Gawen Westerling, Lord of the Crag, declared as he tried to keep his eyes off of Jaime's stump.

"Now that my niece has claimed the Iron Throne, I believe my brother intends to declare for Myrcella."

"Your brother?" Lord Gawen looked incredulous, "Not you?"

"When I joined the Kingsguard, I renounced my claim to the Rock. Though I can still administer the West in Tyrion's name."

"And if we declare for Myrcella, what then?"

"I don't follow." Jaime followed. Lord Tywin made his bannermen fear him. Then he went and died. Now all the bannermen were wondering why they should be afraid of Ser Jaime the One-Hand or his brother the Imp.

"Why should we declare for a half-Lannister girl to be Queen?" Lord Gawen said a little more straightforward.

"Declare for whoever you want," Jaime said, "What we need is for you to swear fealty to the Iron Throne. It's ruled by a Small Council. Declare for Stannis, or Renly, or Robb Stark for all I care. But neither the Rock's nor the Crag's vote counts as long as more than a quarter of the West does not submit to the Throne."

Lord Gawen finally thought enough and said, "Where do I sign?"

With his good hand, Jaime pushed the Declaration of Fealty to him. Lord Gawen signed at the bottom of the sheet, "Gawen Westerling, Lord of the Crag."

"Now, either accompany my uncle to King's Landing, or send a raven. Otherwise, the Crag will declare for Myrcella."

Lord Gawen smirked and said, "And miss out on history?" he swirled in his yellow-and-seashell cloak and left the room. Jaime had to assume he would go to the capital and declare for Casterly Rock's most formidable enemy. Based on Tyrion's last raven, most likely Renly.

As Lord Gawen left, Ser Kevan walked in the room dressed for battle, "Haven't you heard, uncle, the war's over."

"It's you who hasn't heard. Election has replaced war. No one informed me of the dress-code change."

"You're riding off for King's Landing today? I have all of the signatures you need." Jaime handed him a collection of parchments. It was Kevan Lannister's idea to only consult the minimum amount of Lords, and those most loyal to Casterly Rock to keep Lannister influence high at the Kingsmoot. Jaime still doubted that they could manage the West. _The Rains of Castamere _simply didn't carry the same ring with Lord Tywin dead and the Baratheons and Starks sharing the capital city. At least if Lord Tywin died _after _winning the war…

Ser Kevan closed the door to the room, "There's a conspiracy afoot."

"There always is." Jaime was all too familiar with conspiracies at this point. He was once the right-hand man to Cersei's.

"This isn't the time for clever quips," _that was one of the last things my father said to me, too, _"Lord Wendell Serrett has married Lady Alysanne Lefford."

"So Golden Tooth has allied with Silverhill. What of it?"

"Word is they've hired a number of sellswords the Starks and Baratheons are now done with them. And if the spies are right, the Golden Company has broken their contract with Myr. Hedge knights will follow their banners when they hear Casterly Rock is for the taking."

"The Golden Company? So some sellswords have broken a contract? They adorn the Free Cities and breaking contracts is practically breaking bread for men like that."

"The Golden Company _never _breaks a contract. Their words are 'Our Word is Good as Gold.' If you can manage to find them, perhaps offer them some of our own coin to outbid the Alliance of Gold and Silver. Perhaps they can sack them from the inside."

"So you are leaving in the midst of war?"

"I am leaving you with the regency and three thousand of my own swords. Hedge knights, sworn swords, and our own men as well. I'm only taking a small retinue and our most loyal lords to King's Landing."

"Do you really think you can enthrone Myrcella? Even if you do manage to build up the support, I doubt it would be in time to stop the war."

"I don't know. We'll certainly try. Otherwise I we'll see who offer the West the best of deals. Word has it Robb Stark promises to let each kingdom carry its own laws and rule. That might serve our needs."

_Ironic,_ "That same word has it that Renly is winning. Perhaps if we vote for the King in Highgarden, he might see we could be of use, march all those roses here, and save our golden asses."

"I will certainly find out," Ser Kevan turned to the door, "I don't need to tell you what to do, Ser Jaime. You've seen war, you understand the needs of the battlefield. The Rock is yours. Do not let us down." And with that, he rode the Goldroad to the capital city.

Ser Jaime, however, was still blown back. The Rock would come under siege. That much was clear. The Lannister armies to defend it were either buried in the Riverlands, or in no rush to return to the service of a lost cause. Or they threw their lot with the Alliance of Gold and Silver.

Jaime wondered if that was an official name, or if that was simply what Ser Kevan called them. If the former, it was certainly the kind of name that would instill fear in the heart of any Lannister.

Ser Kevan had it wrong. Jaime knew extraordinarily little about what to do. Fighting a war was not the same as fighting a battle, and fighting a battle was not nearly the same as fighting a man. That was the part that Jaime understood, but he couldn't even do that any more.

He left the room and wandered about the Rock. As servants and attendants went about their duties of the castle, Jaime couldn't help but see their heads on spikes as Lord Serrett's men cut them off. He saw the gold decorations get carried off to Myr and Lys. He saw the portraits of his father, and grandfather, and Lann the Clever be carried to Golden Tooth and Silverhill where they become the centerpiece of conversation for years to come. "That's Lord Jaime Lannister," some Serrett boy would tell visitors, "he thought he could fight my father after he lost his hands, but he was a fool."

No.

Jaime found the library and locked the door. He pulled out Daeron Targaryen's _Conquest of Dorne _and began reading. Sunspear was certainly not Silverhill, and Dorne was not the short plain between Golden Tooth and Casterly Rock. Still, the Young Dragon had to have some kind of martial magic Jaime could divine out of his book.

The sun was setting earlier. Winter was certainly creeping up on Westeros. There came a knock at the library door announcing that Jaime's supper was ready. Joy Hill joined him for supper and saw that Jaime was reading, "_Conquest of Dorne_. Doing a little light reading, Ser Jaime?"

"Of course, sweetling." There were others at the table. Men who would sharpen their swords, women who would be afraid and gossip, and servants who might abandon their employ, "It's just an awfully interesting book."

_The one weapon we have right now is the illusion of ignorance. The longer Serrett and Lefford think we are ignorant, the more reckless they may be. _Tomorrow Jaime would order defenses built, call only the most loyal banners, have hot oil prepared, should he try wildfire? As he ate beef and bacon pie and root soup, he made a promise to himself and his lost hand, _When I am done with you, Lord Serrett, they will no longer since that old song about House Reyne. They will sing the Rains of Silverhill._


	13. Robb III

**Robb**

"Lord Tyrell, Lord Tarly, if you would let us Kings confer?"

Mace Tyrell nodded at Robb as he left the room. Randyll Tarly nodded and said, "My Lord of Winterfell," before leaving the room. When the door closed it was Robb, Renly, and two of his Rainbow Guard. Brienne was helmed to made her look manlier, while Ser Loras held that penetrating gaze. Renly had that permanent mocking smile.

"Come, King in the North, sit." Renly sat at the head of the table and motioned with his right hand for Robb to sit next to him. Robb figured there was no harm in it, nor should he be intimidated by the presence of Ser Loras or Brienne. He remembered seeing them on the battlefield South-of-God's-Eye, and they certainly knew that there were men like the Greatjon, Maege Mormont, and Helman Tallhart who would certainly not just let one King assassinate their own.

"I was hoping we might talk. Perhaps end this Kingsmoot in one more vote. Brienne if you could hand me that flagon." Renly poured Robb a goblet of wine.

"And how do you mean us to end this Kingsmoot?"

"Easily. As the Faith endorsed me, I think you should now endorse me." Renly took a drink. Robb knew that wasn't the end of the discussion. Robb was still in second place, "You see, you could've gone to Winterfell and remained King in the North and after I won the Kingsmoot against my brother, I would have invaded. I don't know who would win that war and I'm extremely grateful neither of us has to find out.

"I think you joined the Kingsmoot at your mother's behest. She's a woman of the South, she wants to see the Realm remain one piece in peace. So she asked you to join Stannis and I as we decided who should sit the Throne. So here we are. Now, a Northerner simply cannot sit the Iron Throne. It wouldn't be accepted. But I am not beyond… alternatives."

Robb took a long drink of wine. Given the choice, he would have preferred Castle Black brew or Last Hearth lager. Winterfell made a nice ale too, "What kind of alternatives?"

"Well the North and the South are different. We shouldn't be beyond saying that. Old Gods, New Gods. Wolfswood, Kingswood. Dorne, the Wall. These are fundamental differences between our two lands. They're so far apart, only dragons could bring them together. Now that the dragons are gone it's ridiculous to assume things could go on as they did. A stag is no dragon, and Robert was no Aegon. A new system for a new era."

"I appreciate this, Lord Renly." Robb took another drink, "but I have a duty to my people. I have an honor to maintain. A man is nothing without it. I'm sure my father made that impression on you when he lived."

"I would never ask a Stark to besmirch his own honor. Perhaps you could do away with _Winter is Coming _and replace it with _Death Before Dishonor_." Robb wondered if that was a joke. When he read the full report of his father's death, Lord Stark confessed to trying to seize the Throne and then declared Joffrey the rightful King. Anything but honorable in the sight of Gods and Men, "Maybe I haven't been as clear as I should have been. Let me speak plainly." Renly put his goblet on the table.

"Please do." Robb said. Renly smiled curiously at that.

"Robb Stark, King in the North, if we add your strength to mine, we will pull in 67% of the Lords of Westeros. My brother and nephew would be forced to bend the knee and all the Houses in the South will bend the knee to King's Landing while all the Houses in the North will bend the knee to Winterfell." Robb noted that Renly left out where exactly the line was between North and South, "Appointments, garrisons, administration, is all under the jurisdiction of the King and Warden in the North and Lord of Winterfell."

"What you're promising is independence, King Renly." Robb clarified.

"Not independence. A dual monarchy. A King in the North, a King in the South. Let all the Houses in the North bend the knee to Winterfell, I don't care otherwise. The only area that the South will take precedence over the North, is taxation. We'll work out the details later, but for now, let's just say it's the standard rate from Robert's rule."

"So King Renly is selling Northern autonomy?"

"Southern suzerainty over the North. In exchange for your support, the North will have internal autonomy while contributing to the Bank of Storm's End."

Robb felt everything inside his head grind to a halt. Renly was right about one thing: retaining his title, autonomy for his people, and virtually every right to the First Men that they had gained in the war. There was no dishonor in that, was there? This Bank of Storm's End, though… Robb wasn't entirely sure about that.

"Let me ask you this, King in the South," Robb pushed his goblet to the center of the table and leaned in, "How long do you think your support from the Faith will last?"

Renly's smile suddenly disappeared. Loras' glare became more pronounced. Brienne shifted uncomfortably in her armor, "Sorry?" the King said.

"With the High Septon there I think it's only a matter of time before men are reminded of their faith. And I think most men in Westeros know that the Faith means little beyond personal preferences. Conversion didn't help House Bracken win over House Blackwood any more than Blackwood's piety helped them win. There's no Faith Militant or Court to enforce their rule, and no Baelor the Blessed to pray men to fealty. If I support you, how do we know that all those pious Lords might make deals under a Myrcella or a Stannis reign. My own Lords might do the same if I give you suzerainty over my Kingdom."

"Perhaps," Renly poured himself another glass of wine, "you're right. The longer we wait, the less the High Septon's word has an effect. The more votes that go on, the less pious men will feel. But if we ally now, we can win."

"I'll need to think it over tonight." Robb said. He stood and started to leave.

"You'll join us at the Dragonpit today, won't you, King in the North?"

"Of course, just let me get my wife and retainers."

"Oh, please do. I think you'll definitely want to see my Rainbow Guard."

Robb left Renly's tower and headed to his own. Roslin was waiting there with her good-mother. They both seemed dressed to go out, "Where are we going?" Robb asked.

Catelyn spoke up first, "Lord Renly and his Rainbow Guard are holding a rather spontaneous Tourney in the Dragonpit."

Roslin stood in her dress of Frey blue and gray, "We don't want to miss out on the show Lord Renly wants to give us, now do we?"

Robb was happy that his wife could see through Renly's scheme. He was smart enough to marry the daughter of the most populous Kingdom in the Realm, lucky enough to obtain the High Septon's endorsement, and now he was shrewd enough to have his best knights beat others bloody in a show of force. Even if Robb didn't swing all of Winterfell and Riverrun to Renly, he should still win over a few Lords on the morrow, "Perhaps I'll ask the Greatjon Umber to partake."

Catelyn smiled, "That sounds like an _excellent _idea, my King. I wonder how he'd fare against Ser Loras?"


	14. Tyrion III

**Tyrion**

Tyrion, for one, was happy to finally be done with all the official Small Council business with the frigid Lady Stark and could finally get lit. He knew Renly's Dragonpit Tourney was a show of force, but why care? Renly seemed likely to win on the morrow anyway, especially if he was conferring with the Young Wolf or the Red Viper.

He took a seat with other high-born lords and told his squire to bring a wineskin. Tyrion promptly started downing gulps of wine and volunteers took to the Dragonpit and began beating each other senseless. On the exact opposite end of the pit, the three Kings and one Queen were sitting watching the melee. From all the way over here, Tyrion could see Renly smirk like a seagull, Stannis grimace like trout, and Robb Stark itch to grab his sword and jump into the pit. Maybe he was just imagining it.

Renly stood up and raised his hands for quiet after the first six fighters had riled the crowd up enough, "I hardly think I need any introduction. But I am King Renly the First. I called this surprise Tourney to showcase my Rainbow Guard for those who doubted their legendary prowess. I present to you Ser Robar the Red, of House Royce!"

Ser Robar wore a suit of armor plated with polished bronze. The polishing job did little to hide the nicks and scratches in the armor, but it made Ser Robar that much more formidable. In his Baratheon helm that hid most of his face, Ser Robar shouted, "Who will challenge me?" Tyrion could make out the bizarre bind rune carved in the face plate.

A man in dark armor with the flaming heart of the Lord of Light on his doublet jumped into the pit and drew his sword. Ser Robar shouted, "And who are you?"

Tyrion was buzzed enough by now that he was tempted to sing the rest of that godawful song his father inspired.

"Ser Dorden," the knight responded.

"The Dour Knight? Would that I had a challenging opponent…"

Ser Dorden charged at Ser Robar. The two danced the knightly way for fifteen minutes before Ser Robar proved his rune-riddled armor did indeed protect him and Ser Dorden yielded to his sword. Ser Robar ran a victory lap around the Dragonpit and was cheered by highborns and smallfolk alike.

King Renly stood and called Ser Robar back. He held up his hands for silence and introduced, "Lord Bryce the Orange, of House Caron!"

Bryce the Orange defeated some Crownland's knight from Crackclaw Point. Ser Emmon the Yellow of House Cuy came after him and beat another of those fire-worshippers to bloody pieces. This one was a little braver, prouder, or stupider than Ser Dorden the Dour. Ser Emmon killed him before Ser Guyard the Green of House Morrigen took the field and challenged a Northlord or a Dornishman. Renly already proved his knights could beat Stannis' knights, now he wanted to be Robb and Myrcella's swords.

Midway between Ser Guyard sheathing his sword in a Riverlord's thigh, Tyrion began to wonder if he should've kept count of how many drinks he'd been taking. Also, the Red Viper walked over and asked, "the Lord of Casterly Rock if I may take a seat next to him?"

Tyrion nodded as best he could, "Come sit, Prince of Dorne."

The Red Viper did and they watched Ser Guyard the Green dance around the Dragonpit for a few minutes before Brienne the Blue of House Tarth was introduced and she spent the next ten minutes demanding a challenger. Finally, a knight wearing white armor jumped into the pit and brandished his sword. Tyrion looked over and saw it was the Kingsguard sworn to Myrcella, Ser Arys Oakheart.

"Isn't that your white knight?" Tyrion asked.

Ser Arys' chivalric impulses began to clash. He knew he had to put his all into the fight as an honorable warrior, he also knew he needed to respect and defend women. Luckily enough, Brienne proved she could defend herself. She brandished a shield with the quartered suns and moons of Tarth. She didn't carry a sword, but a morning star that managed to convince Ser Arys that he either needed to defend himself more vigorously, or accept the dishonor of being beaten by a woman in combat in front of half of the city.

"Indeed, Ser Arys is integral to our plan to enthrone the Queen."

Even drunk, Tyrion could tell the Red Viper was bluffing. But he was here for a reason, "May I offer you some wine?"

As Brienne the Blue struck a blow across Ser Arys' helm, he flew back and struggled to find his feet, "Please."

Tyrion poured the Prince a glass of Arbor gold. Ser Arys had vastly underestimated the Lady of Tarth and had lost far too much ground. She brought him to a level where he could not find his feet until she dug out a dagger and he screamed, "Yield!"

"Your white knight doesn't seem so formidable. Gods forbid an army warmongering whores should try to kidnap Queen Myrcella." Tyrion laughed while pouring himself another glass.

"Ser Arys is a fine knight. Thankfully you and your friend Lady Catelyn have replaced wars with elections so Ser Arys' sword is much less useful in that regard." Oberyn Martell was pacing himself. No doubt he wanted more wits about than Tyrion cared to have at the moment.

"And if that army of whores should attack the Queen and Ser Arys should fail against women once more, what then?"

"Your niece has become quite taken with Dornish fables and foods. Perhaps she may want a few more Dornish guards. Ser Arys, for all his finery, is still a Reachlord."

King Renly stood and called out Ser Parmen the Purple of House Crane. Ser Parmen's purple armor was almost black which was a nice contrast when another of Stannis' fire-worshipers took the field with the battlecry, "For the night is dark and full of terrors!"

"But will Renly's Knight be darker and more terrible?" Oberyn laughed and Tyrion followed. Sure enough, Ser Parmen was terrible and the fire-worshiper yielded just before the Reach Knight took his head off.

"I'm afraid Myrcella will not last long in the running if the situation continues like this. If the Valelords arrive and switch to Renly, and as the Riverlords become more pious, Renly will win. How long do you think it will take before the West can declare?"

"I believe my uncle will arrive soon with the oaths from the Westerlords."

"And will the Lord of Casterly Rock cast his support for his niece?"

"Of course."

King Renly stood and announced the crown jewel in his Rainbow Guard, "Lord Commander Ser Loras Tyrell!"

The Knight of Flowers looked as colorful as ever, with a doublet ringed in a mandala of flowers. His shield was a triplet of gold roses on the green field of Tyrell. His armor, probably second in expense only to Jaime's, was intricate and all enclosing. Only the most magic of weapons could find kinks and spaces between the joints. Tyrion began to question how the Knight of Pansies could move at all.

He raised his sword and shield and shouted, "Who will face me?"

Without hesitation, an unmistakable voice rose from the crowd and declared, "I will!" and like a beast out of one of the First Men mythos, the Greatjon Umber stood with a flagon of ale and a hammer in the other. It took Tyrion a minute to make out the inscription on the side of the hammerhead, "Ours is the Fury." Well if anyone was going to carry Robert Baratheon's warhammer, it should be the Greatjon.

The Lord of Last Hearth jumped into the pit and Tyrion could swear he felt the ground shake beneath his feet. The giant raised the flagon first and downed what was left of the ale, threw the container down, and then raised the hammer high over his shoulder, "Come at me, lad."

Ser Loras leapt forward, sword brandished, and struck at the Greatjon's right. The giant of Last Hearth was far more graceful than Tyrion ever considered he might be. He dodged one blow after another. Even when Ser Loras did land a successful strike, he simply cut through wool to the mail. When Ser Loras finally did strike hard enough to break the mail, there was boiled leather.

The Greatjon swung the hammer and took off the top corner of Ser Loras' shield. The Knight whirled, his rainbow cape flying, followed by the sharp long sword. The blade met the hammer. The Greatjon brought Ser Loras' sword to the ground and he charged forward, knocking the Knight of Flowers off his feet. As the Greatjon brought the hammer high to end the duel, the Lord Commander rolled out of the way, picked up his sword and struck at the Greatjon's thighs. Tyrion could see a trickle of blood, but he doubted the drunken Lord of Last Hearth felt it.

Tyrion hoped Ser Loras felt good about that strike. Because the Greatjon brought the hammer around and recreated the Battle of the Trident. He didn't quite swing it as hard as Robert did when thinking of Lyanna, but he caught Ser Loras at just the right moment to send him flying half way across the Dragonpit. The Greatjon the hammer above his head and shouted with all the strength of Last Hearth, Robert Baratheon, and a flagon (or four) of ale, "_King in the North! King in the North!" _

"So that's what we'll do. Cast our strength for Myrcella, ally with Robb Stark, and when we can edge Renly out, switch over to the King in the North."

_Oh shit, did I say that out loud?_

Instead, the Red Viper poured himself another glass of Arbor gold, "That sounds like a plan."


	15. Davos II

**Davos**

_Gods, the Greatjon is frightening_. Davos thought. He didn't believe in rebirth. The _Seven-Pointed Star _was very ambiguous about an issue that Stannis and his red woman was very sure about. They all believed him to be Azor Ahai reborn. But if Davos had to insist that anyone was reincarnated, then the spirit of Robert Baratheon lived in that hammer, and the Greatjon was channeling his spirit.

Thankfully, he was one for praying and lighting candles, it was up to the Septons to debate theology.

"This is disgusting," King Stannis growled. He was drinking the same horn of ale through the Tourney. Davos was still surprised Stannis actually accepted to come at all.

"Your Grace, we can leave if you don't want to watch."

"I don't."

Davos wasn't sure if he didn't want to leave, or didn't want to watch. Probably both. He didn't want to watch Renly's Rainbow Guard go about defeating every R'hllor worshiper in the field, and falling only to Robb Stark's drunken Northmen. But still, what could he do?

"Have no fear, my King, this is child's play to the Lord of Light," Davos sat at Stannis' left hand. The red woman at his right, "God does not care whether colored armor can win a tournament any more than cidermongers care if an apple is red skinned or green."

"But he cares if there are apples. If Renly is showcasing his strength and his knights are known to beat mine, then how can I convince the lords of Westeros to cast their vote for me?"

"You only need one vote, Your Grace."

She was awfully predictable, that one.

"Your Grace," Davos began, "I wouldn't worry about this one. The Greatjon is not the only drunkard here. As the night goes on, the Lords will continue to drink and forget about all of this by morning."

The King grunted, "They'll be talking about how Lord Umber sent Ser Loras flying for generations. Especially when they add a hammer to their sigil."

Ser Davos watched Ser Loras stand up and dust off his armor. He gathered his sword and rushed off to his other Rainbow Guard members. Even though it wasn't helping his King, Ser Davos couldn't help but chuckle at how Renly's plan was to showcase the power of his Rainbow Guard, working all up until he sent Ser Loras into the field. Renly's Blue woman even managed to be a victory. But then all the Knights gathered and lined up in the pattern of the colored blade of the warrior's son, with Ser Loras in the center despite how he just lost to the great hulking giant of a Northman.

They all raised their swords as one and shouted, "Renly! Renly! Renly King!" The crowd of Renly's supporters took up the chant, followed by the smallfolk who took up the cry eagerly since it was Renly's wife who took the credit for feeding the starving people of King's Landing. Ser Davos looked around and wasn't sure if there was a constituency that _wasn't _shouting Renly's name. Perhaps there were some Dornishmen who couldn't stand the thought of a half-Reachlord succeeding Renly's to the Iron Throne, or some Northmen who didn't have any love for Robert's youngest brother. Davos made a note to befriend the two Skagosi who kept voting for Stannis.

Stannis stood up and slammed his drinking horn on the arm of the chair, "I am ending this folly." He clambered down the stone steps to the wall of the pit and leaped over the edge. Ser Davos and Melisandre both stood with their mouths open. Davos knew one of Renly's knights would try to take this opportunity to knock him out of the running. Permanently.

But the red woman just smiled.

Suddenly noticing that their King's brother just ruined their cheer, the Rainbow Guard turned and Brienne the Blue charged at Stannis. The King simply drew his sword and in a pair of strikes, cast Brienne to the side in a heap of cuts, bruises, and dented armor. Ser Bryce the Orange filled Brienne's place and tried striking at Stannis' unarmored head. Stannis feinted, hit Caron's shield so hard it cracked, and passed his blade so quickly across Ser Bryce's neck blood sprayed across the Dragonpit and the knight still managed to swing his sword once or twice before he realized he was already dead.

Apparently, besting the knight of Nightsong encouraged Stannis' own swords. They began leaping into the pit one by one leading to a grand melee before Stannis could bring his sword against the Knight of Flowers.

Ser Davos silently thanked the gods that it was Ser Bryce whose helmet was carved in an not Ser Loras'. Stannis did not need more ill feeling from the Tyrells. Instead Ser Loras ducked out of the way and crossed swords with one of the Queen's Men. The Rainbow Guard, minus one orange knight, crossed swords with Stannis' men until swords sworn to Renly began to replace them in the field.

The grand melee continued for a little over an hour before the Queen's Men and swords sworn to Stannis built a perimeter in the center of the pit and shouted, "For the night is dark and full of terrors!" Stannis stepped forward and held lightbringer out in front of him. At first, the glimmering blade seemed to awe and dazzle the crowd.

When Stannis held it up for all to see, Melisandre stood and declared in response, "For the night is dark and full of terrors!"

The circle of men with fiery hearts over their chests beat their swords against their shields and declared, "Stannis! Stannis! Stannis King!"

They repeated this mantra like a prayer, over and over again:

"Stannis! Stannis! Stannis King!"

Ser Davos looked around and hoped the people would see the magic sword, hear the cheer, and see the strength of Stannis and his men and take up the cheer. Then on the morrow, perhaps the Lords of Westeros might reconsider and declare for the King in the Narrow Sea. Instead, they murmured uncomfortably about the demonic nature of Stannis' sword, of the unnatural strength and power of R'hllor worshipers, and most importantly, could they sit a man who did not follow the faith on the Iron Throne?

Truth be told, Ser Davos had to constantly ask himself that question as well. When no one took up the call for Stannis to be enthroned, they refused to back down. They kept declaring Stannis' name until Lord Renly stood, that smirk stuck on his face like a scar, stood and asked that they please settle down, "It's time for the next phase of the Tourney!"

Ser Davos turned to the red woman and saw wasn't deterred by the lack of cheers, "Can we talk for a moment, Lady Melisandre?"

She turned to him. The jewel at her throat beat ominously like a heartbeat, "You'd like to confer, Onion Knight?"

"I would."

She followed him out of the Dragonpit and out into the open air. This woman made him uneasy, "Lady Melisandre, I think the separation between our religions has gone too long."

"I'm sorry, Ser Onions, I don't fully understand what you're implying." She smiled wickedly.

"This foreign religion is making Stannis seem like some puppet of Myr or Asshai. It cannot go on."

"Ser Davos, are you trying to persuade me to join your false gods?"

"No, m'lady. I know you would rather die than leave your Lord of Light…"

"The one true god," she interrupted.

"What I am only here to ask is for you to perhaps make amends with the Most Devout. Perhaps if you took a look at _The Seven-Pointed Star_, perhaps you might find similarities with your mythology. If the men of Westeros see King Stannis as a reformer rather than a religious converter, they will be more apt to enthrone him."

"Oh naïve Knight of Onions, do you think Stannis needs to bow to lesser men when he has the one true god on his side?"

"The Septons always told me there was one god, as you are always telling me."

"And which of your gods do the Septons worship? The Scales? The Sword?"

"The Father and the Warrior are manifestations of the divine, yes. But _the Seven _are seven manifestations of _one _God. Perhaps the Seven that the Andals brought with them from Essos is R'hllor, of an older theology and tradition."

"Oh Onion Knight, the Seven are false gods. Don't you remember the power they showed on the beach? How well did your wooden idols hold up to the Lord of Light? How fiercely did they resist the flames? Soon all of Westeros will succumb to the power of the Lord of Light."

Davos did not like the sound of that one bit.

"Just like your Seven. Just like Lord Renly."


	16. Arianne II

**Arianne**

"May I sit, King in the North?" Arianne asked trying to find a balance between continental propriety and Dornish equality of the sexes.

"Please do, Miss…"

"Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne." She added in the part her father did not support, "Heir to Sunspear."

The King in the North stood and kissed her hand, "A pleasure to entertain you on our side of the Dragonpit."

Arianne then noticed the King's Frey wife, "My lady, a pleasure to meet the Queen in the North."

Roslin Frey laughed and responded, "I have not yet been to Winterfell, my lady. I am not Queen _in _the North yet."

Arianne thought how strange it would be if events had gone differently and this girl was her step-daughter. Perhaps if that was the case, she might have the power to simply sway Robb Stark in her favor and seize Sunspear herself. On the other hand, she would have had to marry Walder Frey. She sat down and together Frey, Stark, and Martell watched Stannis Baratheon and his magic sword knock Renly's supporters senseless.

"King in the North, I was hoping we could discuss the Kingsmoot," she leaned over to him, noticing for the first time in her trip to King's Landing that he had muscles bulging from the seams of his northern furs. Perhaps he was part Umber.

Robb Stark looked at her and then turned to his wife, "Ros, could you give the Princess and I a moment?"

Roslin looked at Arianne suspiciously for a moment before nodding and acceding to her husband's wishes, "It looks like things are slowing down here. I'll look for you at the Red Keep." She stood and walked out of the Dragonpit with guards Stark and Frey at her heels to escort her across half the city.

"What about the Kingsmoot would you like to discuss, Princess of Dorne?"

Arianne practically whispered the word, "Victory."

Robb looked over at her. Clearly he never expected to sit the Iron Throne, nor gain Dornish support in that endeavor, "I thought Dorne was supporting Myrcella?"

"We are. We would like to see a queen sit the Iron Throne for the first time in history. But there are other options at our fingertips. In Dorne, we have different ways of thinking that are quite beyond the Andal mindset."

"I'm not an Andal."

"Isn't your mother a Tully of the Faith?"

Robb didn't respond, "Many of my siblings follow the Faith. I'm my father's son."

"And if you were only your father's son and not your mothers you might have fought for independence of the North and not the Trident. You might take your army to Winterfell and defend the north from the next King on the Iron Throne. But you're not."

Robb stopped and turned back to the Dragonpit. The fire worshipers were chanting, "Stannis! Stannis! Stannis King!"

"Do you really want him for your king?"

"Why should I fear King Stannis?" Robb asked, "I fought with him in the North. We repelled ironmen and wildlings alike. We fought side by side. I don't think you understand the bond that exists between warriors. In some ways it's stronger than the bond that exists between gods or blood."

"True. But should a King exist who is king of the Andals _and _the First Men, _and _the Rhoynar? How different are our three people. Why should the Andals with all of their rules and restrictions rule over the North and Dorne?"

She could see he was thinking about it. Did Renly or Stannis come to him first offering the North a deal? Maybe she was getting to him. Maybe he understood…

"Have you ever been to Sunspear, my lord?"

"No."

"Perhaps we should work together. Queen Myrcella has been promised to my brother Trystane, but perhaps we can work something out. My brother Quentyn," _has disappeared. He's trying to steal my seat at my father's behest, _"is not yet promised to any one. Don't you have a younger sister?"

"I do. Unfortunately, Sansa is missing since the war ended."

"I'm sure she'll turn up soon. In Dorne we believe women have inherent power. Your sisters will discover that soon. If Trystane wasn't betrothed already to Myrcella, we could perhaps match him with your youngest sister as well."

"My sister Arya is missing as well."

"Inherent power, Robb Stark," she moved her hand to his knee, "I promise you your sisters will turn up safe. It's just a shame you were married already. We could have united Sunspear and Winterfell, a Kingdom of Fire and a Kingdom of Ice. Imagine undoing the Andal invasion, replanting weirwood trees across the realm, resurrecting the ancient power of our peoples."

"Bastards have a different status in Dorne." Robb said. Of course that was all he could think about. Didn't Ned Stark father some bastard he was eternally ashamed of?

"It's the Andals and their Faith that believes they were born of lust and deceit. Since when was the physical expression of love ever sinful? Not until the Seven came."

Robb Stark loved his half-brother. In his quest to find out everything he could about the King in the North, her uncle discovered that the Heir and the Bastard were best friends growing up. That Lady Stark was appalled that her husband, who she only met once, came back from Robert's War with a bastard in his arms. That when Ned Stark departed for King's Landing, she demanded that he take the black. Even if Arianne could convince Robb Stark to take her in his bed, whatever bastard their union might beget wouldn't be enough to unite Sunspear and Winterfell, but it would be a start.

She moved her hand across his leg and into his inner thigh, "If we can find a place for Queen Myrcella, and keep Dorne and the North above the central green lands, then we can work out the rest later. We can forge a new dynasty to keep our people safe. You say you fight to keep the Starks out of the reach of King's Landing, then ask yourself who was it that fell to Ser Gregor Clegane in the Red Keep? Who was killed at the Trident simply because he kept his oath to his king? The Martells. We have suffered no less than you. It's time we forged an alliance."

Robb Stark took her hand in his and forced it to her own knee, "Princess of Dorne, I understand what you say."

"But you're not receptive to it…"

Robb looked into her eyes, seeing something different entirely, "I think I've had too much ale. The Greatjon's victory inspired me. Perhaps we could discuss this later? Enjoy your evening." With that, the King in the North gathered his retinue and made off for the Red Keep. Arianne suddenly found herself unsure of what she thought of herself, trying to seduce another woman's husband. She stood and escorted Queen Myrcella back to the inn.

The streets of King's Landing were alight with parties and celebrations. Andals, Rhoynar, and Northmen were flocking to the Street of Silk and Street of Ale to celebrate the victories of Renly's Rainbow Guard and Robb's Umber giant. Stannis' men tended to not partake of whoring or alcohol. What a poor existence they led on Dragonstone, indeed.

When Arianne entered the inn with her Dornishmen she led Queen Myrcella to her room. Ser Arys closed the door and stood in front of it with his sword at his side and his visor drawn over his face.

Arianne took his hand lightly and said, "Come to bed with me."

Ser Arys would not budge, "I'm sorry, my lady, I have a duty tonight."

She had never been refused before, "Arys, my love."

"Don't call me that, Princess. I am a white knight of the Kingsguard. I can no longer soil my cloak."

Arianne stepped back. She did not expect this at all, "Is this about the Dragonpit?"

"I lost to Brienne the Blue."

"She is a terrific fighter."

"She is a woman."

_He is ashamed_, "And you blame me?"

"No." _Yes he does_, "No, Princess of Dorne. I blame myself. I have soiled my cloak. I have dishonored my brothers living and dead, and for that I have lost my way. I have been punished and fell to a woman and shamed my Queen."

"You think you were the first of the Kingsguard to bed a woman."

"No. But look at those men. Look at who they were. I will not be one of the Kingsguard to shake their head at. I cannot. If I do that… I shame my Queen. I shame you, Princess."

Arianne did not know what to say, "Arys, please. Come to my room. I will calm you." She took his hand once more and he pulled back harshly. Arianne was almost thrown back to the wall, "Arys…"

"Leave me be, Princess. Please." His voice quivered. He was so ashamed. Arianne felt like shouting insults at him, threatening his manhood, his chivalry. How _dare _he refuse her. How _dare _he fall to a woman. It wasn't her or his prick that made Brienne crush him, it was him. It was his failure. He never deserved that cloak, he never deserved that sword, and he never deserved her. In the end, she just turned around and walked away. In her bed, unimaginably small and unbefitting for a Princess of her stature, she lay in it ashamed and unsatisfied. Neither Ser Arys nor King Robb would have her any more than her father would.

Arianne spoke of the inherent power of women that the Rhoynar believed. That's why they called the river _Mother_. That's why Princesses held as many rights as Princes. That's why Sand held more respect than Snow or Flowers or Storm. But in this waste of green land, she felt the power get sucked right out of her. Had Doran Martell's wishes come true?

She lied down on the bed and reminded herself that she never loved Ser Arys. He was a means to an end. When she closed her eyes, she dreamt of poor, young, married Robb Stark.


	17. Tyrion IV

**Tyrion**

When the Lord of Casterly Rock woke up, his head was pounding and he realized after a moment that he wasn't entirely certain where he was. He reached for a drink of water and then surveyed the room. Alayaya's. He was in Alayaya's chambers. Yaya and a girl with porcelain skin and jade eyes were both in his bed. A third woman with the olive-copper skin tone of Norvos just got up before Tyrion woke and was dressing.

"Excuse me, ma'am, you wouldn't happen to know how late in the day it is?"

The woman looked at him and shook her head, "No speak."

Ah, a foreigner. Thankfully, Yaya just woke up and heard Tyrion ask, "She just arrived here, Lord Tyrion. She's Norvoshi."

_I seem to be meeting a lot of them lately. _Halfway through the Small Council meetings with Catelyn Stark, there seemed to be an armada of Pentoshi ships arriving in the King's Landing harbor carrying hordes of Norvoshi immigrants. They flocked to the already crowded Flea Bottom, as all new arrivals to King's Landing tend to do. They were selling breads on the Street of Flour from little carts, they promised to tell your future for a couple coppers on the street corner, they promised to do all sorts of work. Tyrion imagined that many of the men who were more able decided to invest in a sword and sell themselves to one of the Kings, but most of the girls seemed destined for the Street of Silk.

"Apologies. You'll teach her the Common Tongue well, Yaya."

"No I won't, m'lord. Exotic girls who can't speak the language here in the capital demand a special kind of price. Men come to my mother's establishment for anonymity, not a conversation."

"We seem to be having a rousing one, then." Tyrion stood on his sore legs and held his head, _I must've made a fool of myself somewhere. Dwarves are seldom sober entertainers, _"How late is it, pray?"

"Almost noon, m'lord." Tyrion got dressed and fondled the porcelain girl's breast one more time before he paid his bill, "Please tell this beauty I hope to see her again. With my wits about me, she's quite beautiful." _I suppose she knows nothing of the Common Tongue either_.

Tyrion left the brothel, saying a quick hellow to Chataya and made his way to the Red Keep to begin the day's events. Surely enough, Catelyn Stark sat at the Small Council table next to the Iron Throne with a scowl on her face. Of the four women Tyrion met this morning, there was only one he had no desire to see again, but one he was assured to see until this bloody Kingsmoot was over, "Where have you been, Lord Tyrion?"

"Apologies, Lady Stark, King Renly's Dragonpit Tourney inspired my night." Tyrion looked around the Throne Room. Only a few lords who were less than inclined to imbibe remained to cast their vote for the day. None of the High Lords were present to cast their vote. Tyrion distinctly wondered where the Red Viper had gotten himself to, and he noted the absence of Robb Stark. Stannis Baratheon sat in his usual chair with that ugly scowl on his face, "So does Stannis win by default?"

"Do you see two-thirds of the Lords of Westeros before us?"

"No, my lady. I do not. But how do you suppose we should continue the days events?"

Tyrion made a short count of the Lords present. About ten percent, "Seeing as how we are lacking 90% of the Lords of Westeros and 75% of the claimants, I think we should postpone the day's vote until tomorrow. The Realm has not fallen to pieces in your rule this long, Lady Catelyn, I doubt it will fall apart if it remains in your hands one more night. I trust you."

The young maester turned to Tyrion and handed him a stack of messages sent via raven, "Lord Tyrion, these all came for you."

_Oh Gods… _there were roughly a dozen pieces of parchment sitting in front of the Lord of Casterly Rock. As Tyrion sifted through them, he found most of them were Lords casting their vote. Most of them were for Renly. Two were for Robb Stark, and one was for Stannis. Two voted for Myrcella and Tyrion briefly thought it was nice that they still had _some _supporters.

One was from Jaime.

**Tyrion,**

**I don't know if you've heard the latest tidings, but Casterly Rock will soon come under siege. Houses Serrett and Lefford have married and allied against House Lannister. Kevan will be at King's Landing soon, I am left here to defend the Rock and I find myself less than prepared. Most of our men lie on the field South-of-God's-Eye, and most of our vassals are waiting to find out who wins before they declare a side. I could use some of your wit.**

**- Jaime**

Short, sweet, and to the point. Jaime was afflicted with some reading curse when he was a boy. He probably dictated the letter to a maester. No wait, Jaime lost his good hand, he _definitely _dictated to a maester.

Tyrion asked to be excused to his study so he could write a letter, and wash up before continuing with the day's activities. Lady Catelyn nodded, saying she hoped he would be back before dinner so they could at least discuss things happening on the morrow. Tyrion gave the letters to the maester and said, "I know we don't have the proper documentation for the West's votes, but here they are for when my uncle arrives."

He took Jaime's letter to his solar and began writing:

**Jaime,**

**Sorry to hear about your hand. I was waiting to see where you'd end up before I wrote you and sent you the enclosed designs. I suggest gold.**

**As to our ever loyal bannermen, have no fear, the Rock has never been taken in all history. A protracted siege will wear them out before it wears out you. That said, you will need allies. Don't be afraid to seek out sellswords if it comes to that. But see who will respond first. Be discreet. House Brax and House Marbrand are two of our most loyal houses. Send riders to Ashemark and Hornvale, not ravens. I'll also include my plans for the defense of King's Landing, many of them are for defending Blackwater Bay, but maybe it'll inspire something for when the Rock comes under attack.**

**As for Marbrand and Brax: wait until Lord Serrett marches. After Golden Tooth and Silverhill are empty and defenseless, have Marbrand attack one and Brax the other. When the siege of Casterly Rock fails, the Alliance of Gold and Silver will be caught between a Rock and… well you know how the saying goes.**

**Once this Kingsmoot is over, I will return to the Rock.**

**- Tyrion**

Tyrion went right to the rookery and sent the message. He was strangely not nervous at all. For whatever reason, he trusted his brother the Kingslayer entirely.


	18. Brienne III

**Brienne**

Her body was still sore from fighting Ser Arys and Lord Stannis. While Brienne was all too happy that she was able to go toe to toe with her counterpart in the royal Kingsguard, she found it hard to be proud of anything that happened with Lord Stannis. She tried to console herself with the fact that Stannis was fighting the Mad King since she was still learning to walk.

When Brienne entered the Throne room. Lord Stannis was in heated conversation with Lady Stark, who had finished telling Lord Stannis there was not going to be a vote today. Lord Stannis left the room in a huff to go to his tower. Brienne had no idea what his plans consisted of for the rest of the day, or why he was so upset. He was not likely to win either way.

"My Lady, did I hear you correctly, there will be no vote today?"

"No… Brienne? I'm sorry, I was never taught the proper way to address a woman warrior."

"Brienne is fine, my lady. It is my hope that King Renly will formally knight me when he sits the Iron Throne."

"You don't think that might cause problems?"

"Kings are in charge of worldly matters, are they not? A Knight is a noble warrior of this world who stands vigil one knight in the sight of the Gods. I don't see why a woman wouldn't be able to partake in that practice, or why King Renly wouldn't be able to knight me if he named me to his Rainbow Guard."

"Very well, then. Brienne, please inform King Renly there will be no vote today."

"Of course, my lady."

Brienne took this information back to King Renly's tower. She passed Ser Emmon and he asked her who might take Ser Bryce's place in the Rainbow Guard. Brienne bowed her head and said, "May the Father judge him justly. I'm not sure. We should maybe put some names forward for the King."

She passed Ser Emmon and walked up the Tower. She crossed over to the King's own chamber just as the Queen's voice came up from behind her, "Brienne?"

"Your Grace." Brienne turned and bowed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Lady Catelyn Stark has sent me with a message: the Kingsmoot will not be voting today." Brienne said as the Queen came closer to her.

"Thank you, Brienne. I will tell his Grace. Please return to your duties and inform Ser Emmon not to let in any messages when the King is praying."

"The King… praying," Brienne was confused, "I'm sorry, Your Grace, this has never been an issue…"

"Well now it is."

Brienne had to remember she was speaking with the Queen who was the King's mate, "Yes, Your Grace." She bowed and turned to the stairs to descend.

"Brienne," she called.

"Yes," she said, turning.

"Remember: you're only a sword." The Queen's smile was dark. Thankfully she held it there only a moment before she turned and unlocked the door to the King's solar. She only opened the door a brief moment, but the image burned into Brienne'e memory: a suit of colorful armor decorated with flowers from neck to waist sat on the ground next to a sword she knew well. There was a doublet strewn across the floor with a gold trim and the deep green of the Reach. White smallclothes were scattered about like fallen spears after battle. And in the midst of it all was the unmistakable figure of the King. He wore no clothes. His body was pressed up against another's, a beardless face with long curly brown hair she knew too well.

And then the door closed.

Brienne climbed down the stairs still unsure what to think of what she just saw.

_Remember: you're only a sword_.

She remembered to tell Ser Emmon not to let any one near the King's chambers when he was praying. When he said he was praying. She didn't know what to do with herself. She was a sword without anything to do. She went to her own chambers and attempted to sleep. It did not come easily.


	19. Robb IV

**Robb**

The King in the North sat with his prospective court. Roose Bolton sat to his left and the Greatjon to his right. Roslin sat at the far end of the table with Merrett Frey as the emissary from the Crossing. Rickard Karstark sat next to the Greatjon and his uncle Edmure next to the Leech Lord. The Greatjon was nursing the wounds he received from the Knight of Flowers the night before.

Dacey just finished telling them that Lady Stark and Lord Tyrion cancelled the day's vote due to too many absences. _No doubt, Umber men were certainly celebrating. _The Greatjon confirmed Robb's suspicions:

"It's a shame that the only person who doesn't remember my victory is me."

"Indeed, we should add King Robert's war hammer to your sigil, Lord Umber. Now, I think we have some issues to discuss. Yesterday, King Renly invited me to speak with him before the Tourney. At the Dragonpit, I was approached by Arianne Martell who offered me a different sort of arrangement."

"What did King Renly say to you?" Edmure spoke up.

"King Renly pointed out that he's only missing one-sixth of the vote to sit the Iron Throne… in other words, if the North votes for Renly, he'll have just enough to defeat Stannis and Myrcella. In exchange for Northern support, he's letting House Stark retain the crown of the Kings in the North, as well as internal autonomy. Northern laws will rule the North. Taxes will be paid to Winterfell, and Winterfell will pay taxes to the new Bank of Storm's End."

"Bank of Storm's End?" Lord Karstark said, "I wasn't aware such a thing existed."

"I don't think it does, just yet. I suspect that King Renly doesn't want a repeat of Robert's mistakes. Robert used Casterly Rock as his bank and was indebted to House Lannister. It practically caused the War. I suspect that King Renly wants to funnel as much money as he can into Storm's End to keep the Stormlands as his financial base if dispute ever arises between the Baratheon Dynasty and… anyone else."

"What did Arianne Martell say to you?" Roose Bolton spoke up in his soft, almost-whisper. Robb looked down the length of the table and saw Roslin on the edge of her seat waiting for this part of the tale

"Arianne Martell wants to seat me on the Iron Throne."

There was a moment of silence before Edmure gasped, "What?"

The Greatjon came next, "Is she right in the head?"

Robb held up his hands for silence, "The Princess is coming from a racial standpoint. She says that in comparison with the Andals, we could form an alliance of First Men and Rhoynar. I imagine she wants the same rights for Dorne that Renly is offering us for the North."

Merrett Frey and Edmure looked at each other and wondered the same thing. Thankfully, it was Edmure that chose to voice those concerns, "Where does the Trident fit in these arrangements?"

The Greatjon answered, "Well, boy, if the King in the North sits the Iron Throne, the Riverlands can have whatever rights they want. House Tully is family!"

"You are family," Robb repeated, "I would leave the choice up to Riverrun, Uncle Edmure. If the Trident wants to be ruled in conjunction with the North, I could accommodate that. If the Riverlords want to be semi-independent like Dorne wants to be, so be it."

"And under Renly's plan?" Merrett Frey asked.

Robb then had to answer he didn't actually know, "King Renly very noticeably left the Riverlands out of his plans. I would imagine that he wants to keep as much of the Realm under direct rule of the Iron Throne."

"So what it sounds like is the Martells are willing to swing the vote our way if we grant them a manner of autonomy." The Greatjon said.

"That and she wants to begin uniting Houses Stark and Martell. She suggested marrying Sansa with Quentyn and alluded to annulling the betrothal between Myrcella and Trystane… and marrying Trystane with Arya."

The silence was deafening, "Your sisters…"

_Are dead. I know_, "I told the Princess they were missing," _not missing, dead_, "but she insisted they'll be found eventually."

"One might think the Princess of Dorne was keeping your sisters hidden by herself." Roose Bolton had a point.

"Perhaps… Lord of Dreadfort, perhaps you could make finding my sisters a priority. Alive or…" _say it, dead_, "or otherwise."

"Of course, my lord. You may also like to know that I have heard news from the High Road. The Lord of the Vale have departed in force on their way to King's Landing. Perhaps if Harry the Heir and Lady Lysa could be swayed, we could sign an alliance with Dorne, and be done with this altogether."

"I really don't see how this Dornish plan could go wrong. The King in the North sits the Iron Throne," the Greatjon said, "however brief, and the Hand of the King can rule while the North, the Trident, and Dorne can do as they like."

"Does any one object to the alliance with Dorne?" Robb looked around and saw no one stir, "Very well then." He turned to the door. Roslin raced after him.

"Your Grace?"

"You shouldn't call me that, Ros."

"I should in front of your council." Robb looked behind her as all the Councillors started getting up and leaving to go about their various tasks, "Your Grace, may I accompany you?"

"To where?"

"The Godswood."

"How did you know I was going there?"

"I should know my husband a bit better than he knows himself."

Robb considered it for a moment, and then said, "I would prefer to go alone. I need to think." He turned without waiting for a response and walked to the Heart-less godswood of the Red Keep. There was still a small sept in the corner… but Robb never felt connected to the Seven like he did with the Old Gods of his father. At the center of this southron attempt at a godswood was an oak. It was a fine tree with all the good qualities a tree should have, but it lacked a face. _Perhaps I should be King just to replant all the Heart Trees south of the Neck. I could enlist the Green Men… though I suppose that will not go over well with the High Septon, especially after I promised not to force the Old Gods on the Realm. _

_It's a tree. Walk by it if you must. _

Robb tried hard not to think of his dreams. Grey Wind hated this place and that bothered Robb more than he cared to admit. He growled and snarled at any southerner that tried to handle him, and his howlings lasted throughout the night. Robb felt bad and considered letting him loose for a time. No doubt he could make it to Winterfell on his own. For a time, there were reports of a pack of wolves, bigger than an army, prowling the Riverlands led by a giant she-wolf.

Robb hated this place. But as much as he wanted to return home, he couldn't help but think that it was a sanctuary of sorts. It hid him from the nightmare that he called home. Winterfell was naught but charred walls. The North from Dreadfort to Deepwood Motte, and Castle Black to Moat Cailin was fertilized with blood.

Bran and Rickon were dead. Those few survivors of the Bastard's sack of Winterfell told him they saw the bodies. Theon… Theon burned them. Robb's brothers were dead. When they reached King's Landing, Robb distinctly remembered throwing open the doors of every chamber in the Red Keep. He lit the Black Cells up like the sun of winter hoping to find Arya or Sansa waiting as prisoner. He finally inspected every tower himself, interrogating every Lannister he got his hands on.

And there was no sign of them. Arya was dead. She escaped King's Landing. She had to have escaped and gotten herself killed somewhere along the journey. Sansa… Sansa was gone too. But where? Who took her? Did the Imp have her stashed away on some trade cog, prisoner in Casterly Rock? Was she sold to some Lysene whoremonger? Did she try escaping and get lost in Flea Bottom, just trying to survive?

Sansa had to be alive. She just had to be. If not, Robb had no heirs. Even if Roslin gave him a son, his brothers and sisters were dead. Robb put his hand on the oak tree and silently prayed, _Gods of my fathers, Gods of my home, help me… _

"I didn't know you were such a pious man." Renly Baratheon stood behind Robb.

"King Renly…" Robb straightened himself, "I hear you pray more often than I do."

"Different Gods," Renly smirked, "Have you thought about my offer?"

Robb was unsure how to tell Renly he would not be supporting the King in Highgarden, "I have. I've also discussed it with my counselors."

Renly's smirk was always mysterious. Robb found it incredibly hard to tell whether discussion with his potential Small Council was something to be happy or upset about, "And?"

"We wondered where the Trident would fit under your reign."

"It would be one of the Seven Kingdoms, of course."

"Of the South."

"Of course," Renly laughed, "You don't think Riverrun would swear fealty to Winterfell…"

Robb was silent.

"You do," his smirk disappeared and the King in Highgarden cleared his throat, "Robb Stark, our deal is based on the difference between North and South. Which gods do the Tullys worship?"

"The Seven." Robb admitted.

"You heard the High Septon yesterday. I am the Gods' chosen one." He didn't bother to correct himself and saw the _New _Gods, "Why shouldn't I rule over all the Realms that worship under the Faith?"

"Because they do not want you for their ruler."

Renly paused and looked at Robb from a different angle, "Pardon me?"

"My uncle is Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. My wife's father is a Frey of the Crossing. I spent the past year fighting alongside Blackwoods and Brackens and listening to the grievances of the Riverlords. You think support from the Gods makes you the official King of my people and that's fine. But how can you rule over people who do not want you for their king? Why would you want to? The concession is a line on a map. Nothing more."

Renly Baratheon straightened and placed his hand on the golden pommel of his sword, "My, my… my noble Lord of Winterfell. We're in King's Landing. And I am the King landed here. In Winterfell, you can go around calling yourself King in the North all you like, but the Neck is the border between North and South. You can either accept that border, or forfeit your title, your crown, and your Kingdom and be the simple, lowly, Lord of Winterfell where you forfeit all internal autonomy in favor of Southern law."

Robb matched Renly's gaze for a time. That disastrous smile returned when the King in Highgarden thought he had finally defeated the Young Wolf. But Robb returned and wiped that smirk right off of his face, "I have honor, Lord Renly. I cannot do that."

"Very well, Robb Stark. I have the Reach, the Stormlands, and the Faith on my side. Slowly the Crownlords will come, the Riverlords will crawl my way, and the Vale and Dorne soon after them. I will win. Have no doubt about that. Have no fear, you'll still be Warden of the North when I'm through with you." King Renly whirled and marched back inside.

Robb stood there hoping he'd made the right decision.


	20. Arianne III

**Arianne**

When Arianne learned that there wasn't going to be a vote that day, she didn't know what to do with herself. Had the circumstances been different, she might have gone around the city for a look or two. But they weren't. Ser Arys wouldn't have her, and private meetings were being held between the other players. The few times she left the room to get food she was accompanied by Princess Myrcella.

They played a couple games of cyvasse. Arianne lost all of them. Myrcella had to say about that, "Don't worry, I have a lot of practice with Prince Trystane."

Ser Arys kept his helm lowered to hide his face. Arianne repeated to herself _I never loved him_. She knew it to be true in both her heart and her head, but her bed was never so cold.

At some point in her third glass of wine, a young boy came to Arianne in a doublet with the blue towers of Frey on his doublet, "Princess Arianne?"

Arianne looked at the boy, "Yes?"

"I am Olyvar Frey, squire to King in the North. His Grace comes this way, seeking you." Olyvar was lanky. Like a weasel. But Robb Stark was coming. To speak with her. She ordered another flagon of wine.

The King in the North entered a half hour later. Arianne managed to finish a fourth glass by the time he sat down. She greeted him by pouring his glass, "King in the North."

"Robb is fine," he said, taking the glass and drinking heartily, "Princess, I was hoping to discuss the deal we touched upon at the Dragonpit?"

_The Dragonpit… what did I touch at the Dragonpit? _"The deal. What were you thinking, Your Grace?"

"Something very simple. We can discuss the union of our Houses another time. But Lord Renly once offered the North internal autonomy in exchange for annual tribute to Storm's End. Since Renly did not extend that deal to the Trident, we've rejected his arrangement and my counselors think it might be the king of arrangement Dorne would prefer."

"King Robb," Arianne said, putting down her glass and realizing she needed to stop, "It's been a slow day. If you would, I'd just like to sit here for a bit." She called the Norvoshi busboy over and demanded a plate of cakes.

"Princess Arianne," Robb started to say.

"My King…" Arianne leaned towards him once more, "tell me a story."

"A… a story?"

"Tell me," she said in almost a whisper, "about the first time you killed a man."

Robb looked at her uneasily. He finished what was in his glass and poured himself some more wine, "Hasn't your uncle told you about those sorts of things?"

Arianne nodded, "Yes. But my uncle is a different sort of man." The Norvoshi boy came back with a plate of apple cakes and set it down between them. Arianne picked one up and began to eat slowly so as not to seem like a glutton, "My uncle is the Red Viper. He's a snake who likes to use poison against his enemies. He lies in wait for someone to wrong him just so he can achieve vengeance. My uncle, for all intents and purposes, is treacherous."

"That's a harsh thing to call your own uncle." Robb said, looking at an apple cake as if he was checking it for poisons or some other magic serum.

"I don't think he would mind. My uncle is here to win, not to be honorable. The Starks are the honorable ones, the Martells are the victorious ones." Arianne finished half the apple cake and smiled.

"Victorious ones?"

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken, King in the North. Dorne lost only one war in its entire history. And the Young Dragon's work was undone within a decade. Only by bed and blood did Dorne come to the Realm: on her own terms." Arianne did not intend offense, but Robb seemed to take it that way.

"King Torrhen knelt to save his people and his kingdom," he said defensively.

"I have no doubt he made the right decision. But now that the dragons are dead, the North can throw back as many hosts as she needs to…" Arianne took another drink of wine, "Imagine what the North and Dorne can do together."

Robb answered that he'd been wondering that himself, "I was hoping we could discuss that…"

"Only if you tell me what I want to hear, first."

Robb considered it for a moment before he finally started, "My brother Bran was pushed from a tower and lost the use of his legs. Lord Tyrion came to Winterfell with the designs for a saddle that would hold Bran in the saddle as he trained the horse to respond solely to his voice. We were in the Wolfswood, the forest north of Winterfell where wolves and mountain clansmen roam. Bran was riding his horse while I sat with Theon Greyjoy. All of a sudden, things were silent and I looked around. We went looking for Bran, but when we found him, he was being held hostage by four wildlings. They managed to slip past the Wall and were making their way south." Robb drank and tried to dig into his memory. The last Arianne hear, both Theon and Bran were dead. She suddenly wished she hadn't asked him, "I told them to let him go and they could live. I drew my sword and when one of them rushed me with an axe, I cut him down with a strike to the throat." All of a sudden, Robb grew animated. His face contorted in a wicked smile as he remembered cutting the neck of the man who threatened his younger brother. Arianne saw his hand curl into a fist and his beard begin to curl up into a smile. Arianne's own hand discreetly slipped to her thigh. Her bed was cold last night, and she thought she would have Ser Arys to slake her thirsts. But he was so… juvenile. Robb Stark was far younger but so much more… what was the word she was looking for?

"Tell me about that feeling again," Arianne demanded.

Robb was lost in a trance and had to take a moment to respond, "What feeling?"

"That one. The one where you drew pleasure from killing a man you knew was harming your family. When did you feel it again?"

Robb took a long drink before he answered her. When the glass passed his lips, a wicked smile adorned his face, "The Whispering Wood. Every Lannister sword I met felt like a morsel of justice. Each one was Jaime Lannister to me. I was so close to him. My bannermen count themselves lucky that I did not face the Kingslayer or I would have been killed. Still I can feel the steel and see his breath in the morning. And when he kneels before me after the battle, I felt justice."

Arianne tried to be discreet. Her hand moved to her thighs and she pressed. Robb spoke with such passion and vindication… how did they let a man like Ser Arys on the Kingsguard? Better yet, Arianne began to wonder why she would ever let a man like Arys Oakheart inside her when there were men like Robb Stark out there instead. She began to rub herself slowly as Robb described the Battle of South-of-God's-Eye.

"Have I missed the King's story?" the Red Viper put a hand on Arianne's shoulder. Somewhere between Robb Stark's charge into the vanguard and into her, her fantasy was ruptured and she pulled her hand away. Her uncle would notice a thing like that.

"Prince Oberyn," Robb stood only to be motioned otherwise by the Red Viper.

"Please, don't get up on my regard. If you don't mind I'd actually like to sit with you," Robb Stark motioned to the chair and the Red Viper gladly took his seat. He helped himself to wine and apple cake before he began, "King in the North. That has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Dorne would like to see you sit the Iron Throne."

"So Princess Arianne would have me believe."

"Indeed. We have an ally in Lord Tyrion and are going to muster up as much strength in Myrcella as we can before switching our support to you."

"Don't you think we'd stand a better chance if we were united now?"

"Yes and no. Numerically… possibly. We might be able to sway other Lords and show them higher numbers. On the other hand, there are still southron lords who are not entirely comfortable with you as their king. Westerlords and Dornishmen especially. We need to muster our strength and then unite when our combined force will yield immediate victory over Renly."

"Renly has half the vote," Robb said, pouring himself another glass of wine, "There's no way we can recover so quickly without a united strength."

"No there is," Oberyn said, eating a whole apple cake in three bites, "You see, I have it on good authority that the Westerlands will declare tomorrow. They will, of course, vote for Myrcella. When that happens, as the numbers stand, Myrcella should jump to second place. I think we might be able to safely assume that you might swing the Vale in your favor. That will give us 45% combined. We will be tied with Renly."

"And Lord Stannis?"

"I think once he sees how overwhelmingly defeated he is, those that support Lord Stannis will begin to go over to either Lord Renly or us and I think it's up to us to offer those Lords better deals. The Florents were always looking for lords who could help propel them over Highgarden. Maybe early on we could let Stannis into our little secret and promise to make him Lord Paramount of the Stormlands."

"Stannis Baratheon will not go down so easily."

"No, he won't. But we will certainly make the effort to see that he does. Let the West declare for Myrcella, my King in the North, and you concentrate on the Vale. Soon enough, the Iron Throne will be yours." The Red Viper downed what was left in his glass and turned to Arianne, "Niece, I think it's time to get some sleep Tomorrow will be an exciting day." He stood and went up the stairs and to his own room.

Arianne looked at him shyly and responded, "I will retire shortly."

The Red Viper looked at the two of them and smiled wryly. Arianne remarked to herself that she never thought he could be so politically intelligent. To her, he was always the uncle with the poisoned spear, nothing more.

Robb looked over at Arianne and said, "I should go."

"My King…" Arianne put her hand on Robb's and said, "I should say something."

"Princess, please don't feel the need…"

"I don't. But you are going to be my king. I feel it at least proper of a Princess of Dorne." She straightened herself and said, "I apologize for my behavior the other night. It was wrong of me to ask you to betray your sacred honor."

"I don't take offense, my lady. To be truly honest, I think you are absolutely correct. A marriage between our houses would be extraordinarily beneficial. It's a shame I needed to cross the Twins in haste… if I was able to save Lord Eddard from the Queen, it might have been worth it. But I…"

"You needed that bridge."

"I needed the bridge."

Arianne felt her hand drifting towards her thighs again before she stopped herself, "I should get some rest."

"As should I." Robb finished his glass and then said, "Good night, Princess."

"Good night, my King." Arianne went up the stairs instead of waiting for King Robb to leave. The wine made it difficult to stand at first, but Arianne steadied herself and took each step one-at-a-time. She made it to her room and opened the door. She held her head and imagined what it would be like in Robb Stark's arms. She took off her dress of Norvoshi silk and couldn't seem to get out of her smallclothes fast enough. As she did, she felt her breasts fill, her woman's parts swelled with fluid.

She felt Robb Stark's mouth on her neck, his teeth softly nibbling at her neck as he fondled her chest. Arianne moaned softly and felt her hands wrap around his waist. She unbuckled his belt and felt around his legs. He was hard and strong as she imagined him. She stripped off his armor, his furs, and his smallclothes, and she felt his scars, counting them one by one.

"Oh Princess…"

"My King…" she wanted to please him. She wanted to be his bride, she wanted him to make her his Queen. If just for a night. In a moment of hesitation, Arianne found herself hating Roslin Frey. She wanted to find her on the street and fall to her feet, to beg her to share him, and if that failed, to threaten her and tell her all the things she could do better than her. How she was a Princess of Dorne and she was the whelp of a geriatric pervert.

"Do you want me to be your King?"

"You are…" Arianne pulled away to move her lips onto his and taste a King, "Ser Arys?"

Her fantasy crashed down around her as she realized Robb Stark was not in the room. He had indeed left and for all she knew, was lying with his Frey Queen. In her arms was Ser Arys Oakheart, "Princess of Dorne, it's me. I'm so sorry… I should not have scorned you last night. I was ashamed, but I realized my love for you is greater than my shame for myself. Why should I be dedicated to our cause but to marry you?"

"I… I'm grateful you have come," Arianne lied. She looked away and wondered if she should do this. Should she keep leading Ser Arys on, knowing she wanted Robb Stark. She thought of the cold sheets she would have to return to. She thought of winter's treacherous approach and how nice it would be to wake up with a man's arms around her, to satisfy her morning hungers. She thought about how all she had to do was imagine and pretend.

For the first time in her life, Arianne wanted someone uncontrollably. At that moment, she was ready to run to Robb Stark, and fall at his feet, and beg for him. She half-wondered why she didn't do it on her fourth cup of wine. She could say yes to Ser Arys and then imagine Robb and his wolf's blood against her, biting her, inside of her.

"No."

Arys was incredulous, "What?"

"I want you to leave."


	21. Tyrion V

**Tyrion**

"Maester, as you can see, my Lord uncle and the rest of the Lords of the West are here to cast their vote in the Kingsmoot," Tyrion held up the stack of parchments signed by three-quarters of the Westerlords to support Casterly Rock's partaking of choosing the next King on the Iron Throne.

The Maester flipped through them one by one. Tyrion made eye-contact with Ser Kevan who smiled at the head of the table reserved for the Lords of the West.

"Very well then," the Maester said, "and who does the Lord of Casterly Rock cast his vote for?"

"For Myrcella Baratheon." Tyrion answered. There was no cry as inspiring as the Greatjon's _King in the North!_, but the Lords of the West raised their swords and shouted, "Hail!"

Tyrion wasn't sure how the Lords of Westeros would respond to the Lords of the West. Most of them had just seen Joffrey's defeat in the war as the Gods' version of a Trial by Combat, since they were just plain throwing out Right by Conquest and the Lords would normally just submit to the King who defeated the other. In this case it was the Allies who defeated Joffrey, supported by the Lannisters. Dornish support of Myrcella wasn't exactly _helping _their cause except numerically.

The vote continued with all the Lords of Westeros, except the Ironborn of course, voting. The final numbers surprised Tyrion more than he thought they were. He realized early on that there certainly was some politicking… mostly in Robb Stark's favor and against Stannis'. Or maybe Stannis' sworn lords just realized they hitched their horse to a sinking ship. Unfortunately, Renly still came out in the lead.

**R. Baratheon: 83 (41%)**

**R. Stark: 45 (22%)**

**M. Baratheon: 31 (16%)**

**N. Voting: 25 (13%)**

**S. Baratheon: 16 (8%)**

Two more votes and Stannis would be knocked out of the running. Myrcella or Robb should be able to pick up those pieces. Thanks to that special connection warriors have, Stannis would most assuredly support Robb Stark and not his pansy brother or his illborn niece.

As they discussed last evening, Ser Kevan stepped forward and addressed an issue that Tyrion thought was surprisingly under discussed, "If it please the Lords of Westeros, I have something to say. There are many here who have questioned not only Queen Myrcella's legitimately to rule, but who would rule while a child sat the Iron Throne? Yes, she was supported by House Martell of Sunspear, and House Lannister of Casterly Rock. But after the debacle that was Joffrey's reign, we mean to ensure that no family maintains hegemony over the Red Keep, but the _right persons_ can rule. What we need more than anything is proper purse strings, an adept Master of Coin, and a thrifty Hand of the King. Men like Robb Stark and Stannis Baratheon make excellent generals, but since when did excellent generals make excellent accountants? The Seven Kingdoms are in debt to the Most Devout and the Iron Bank. Do we invade the Great Sept of Baelor? Or do the King in the North and the King in the Narrow Sea both propose we invade Braavos? There are men from the West who have the experience and the knowledge of balancing the Crown's budget. Houses seated in Ashemark, and the Tor, and even Oldtown and Lubicz Keep that would do well to come to King's Landing and find a way to develop austerity measures to keep Westeros afloat and in peace. Like all wars, the War of the Five Kings did not develop over night. My brother, may the Father judge him justly, believed he was owed and set out to enforce the Crown of his grandson as his price. Only the Gods can tell us if he was wrong to do so, but the numbers do not lie. Even if the War relieved the Iron Throne's debt to Casterly Rock, the Iron Throne is still three million more in debt. Who intends to relieve that wound? Winterfell? Dragonstone? Or shall we follow Renly's plan and allow Highgarden to relieve the debt, only to claim a Crown as their price in another forty or fifty years? Let us continue the dynasty we deposed the Mad King for, and restore order and thriftiness to the Realm."

There was a murmur through the tables. Were they really considering it? Was the Red Viper's plan coming into fruition? Tyrion looked to Renly Baratheon who, for the first time, appeared distressed. He stood in front of his chair and held his arms higher than Ser Kevan, "Now let's not make assumptions," his laugh suddenly contained a quiet desperation, "Ser Kevan, was it not you that defended your brother's collateral? Or was that another Lannister usurper? You claim I plan on putting the crown in debt to Highgarden rather than Casterly Rock. Do the Lords of Westeros see me as the kind who would call financial austerity 'counting coppers' as my brother did? Storm's End was not without its budgets and it is one of the smoothest running castles in all the Realm. My good father has graciously accepted to help restore the Realm to financial stability. Does that make me unworthy of the Throne? If so, why would we seat a woman half Lannister? I have financial plans. I plan on creating a new bank in Westeros, one that will relieve the stress Robert put on the Throne. A bank that will support the crown itself and without outside help. Under my crown Westeros will be financially independent in five years." Renly held up a hand with five spread fingers. A round of applause began with the Reachlords and continued with the Stormlords. Some Crownlords began to catch on and the other Lords supportive of Renly began to applause as well.

As anyone in the Seven Kingdoms could predict, Stannis stood and cut the applause off, "Enough of this foolishness! A young girl is nothing but a shade to sit on a Throne made up of Dornishmen and Lannisters who want nothing but to return to power. My brother claims to bring the Realm to financial independence by yoking it to his new 'bank.' You know who he is. You have seen his balls and masquerades. You have seen the robes he wears, the crown he's forged, and the dress his _wife _and good family wear. How can he, or Highgarden, understand what financial austerity means? It is a farce. Renly's efficiency is more of a fool's jape than a woman's arse on the Iron Throne. How can Lord in his right mindset vote for a King who cannot understand what it means to tighten purse strings when that is exactly what is needed in this time of crisis?"

Lord Alester Florent shot to his feet and shouted, "Hear hear!" Who ever heard of Stannis making japes? Especially at such a serious event? Men from all over the Realm shouted in Stannis' favor. Only the men of Highgarden refused to murmur in favor of the King in the Narrow Sea.

Tyrion looked and saw Robb Stark silent and still. Has the Red Viper filled in the Young Wolf? Tyrion tried to set aside the irony of a Lannister-Stark alliance when the Lord of Riverrun stood and demanded a vote, "We shall have another vote!" _Indeed, let's see who's speech was the most effective_.

Edmure's call was repeated by the Crownlords, "A vote!"

Oberyn Martell echoed the chant that swarmed through the Northlords and Riverlords. The maester stepped forward and raised his hands, "Then a vote we shall have! Quiet, please," slowly the room calmed as the Maester prepared to ask for the vote. Tyrion dipped his pen in ink and prepared, "For the North…"

Just as the sentence left the Maester's lips, the doors to the Throne Room burst open and one of the Small Council's bureaucrats exploded in and declared with some alarm, "The Lords of the Vale have arrived!"


	22. Chaucyr

**Chaucyr**

The old poet tried to concentrate. Once the Lords of Westeros decided who was their next King, Jeoffrey Chaucyr would make a plea to continue his relationship with the crown that was his norm under the reigns of Robert and Aerys. Thankfully, Aerys didn't call on Chaucyr that often. He simply had to write "Fire and Blood" enough times poetry for the Mad King to become giddy with laughter. When Robert raised his banners in rebellion, Chaucyr suddenly found the need to visit his friends in Pentos. When the War of the Five Kings erupted, Chaucyr was making plans to return to Pentos when it was reported that Stannis Baratheon had closed off Blackwater Bay. Dorne sounded nice as well, but then the city surrendered and there was suddenly much less of a need to leave Aegon's High Hill.

Adam was still out trying to fill their daily tankard of ale when Chaucyr decided he could finally get some work done. Without any royal work to take care of, Chaucyr took out the last rendition of his masterpiece and went over it for errors:

**_When in Spring the sweet showers fall  
__And pierce the drought of Winter to the root, and all  
__And bathed every vine in such liquor of power  
__As brings about the engendering of the flower,  
__When also the Father with his sweet breath  
__Exhales an air in every grove and heath  
__Upon the tender shoots and the young sun  
__His half course in the sign of the Sow has run  
__And the small birds are making melody  
__That sleep away the night with open eye,  
__(So nature pricks them and their heart engages)  
__Then folk long to go on pilgrimages,  
__And palmers long to seek the stranger strands  
__Of far off saints, hallowed in sundry lands,  
__And 'specially from every shires' end  
__Of Westeros, to Baelor's Sept they went  
__To visit there the blessed holy monarch quick  
__Who gave them strength when they were faint and sick. _**

The story that followed was a group of thirty pilgrims traveling down the Goldroad from Lannisport to King's Landing, with the goal being the Sept of Baelor. Chaucyr was used to writing all sorts of tales, but in _The Goldroad Tales_ Chaucyr meant to tell a tale of spiritual importance in favor of the small folk and deriding corruption disguised as piety in the Septry.

It would be great.

Just as he was correcting grammatical errors and fixing his alliterations, Adam kicked open the door while balancing a barrel of ale between his hands, waist, and chin. Chaucyr watched as his scribe managed to avoid complete disaster as he finally set the barrel on the ground and _whooshed, _wiping sweat from his brow, "M'lord Chaucyr, that was quite an adventure carrying this 'ere barrel. My ser, yes 'twas. Had to explain to the guards it was for you at the gate before they let me into the Red Keep, ser."

Chaucyr always wanted to give boys from Flea Bottom a chance, but this was just getting unbearable. Adam knew his letters fine, but he seemed to flat-out refuse to copy down Chaucyr's words exactly, making his own revisions out of neglect or on purpose. He made a promise to himself to keep a stronger eye on the boy and limiting his intake of ale.

"You were gone for a while, Adam, where did you go?"

"The Hook, m'lord."

"You filled one barrel of ale at the Hook and were gone for three hours?" The Hook was the street just below Aegon's High Hill. There was absolutely no reason for Adam to be gone so long.

"I tried finding the best deal, m'lord."

"And did you?"

"Well… I had to dip into me own pocket to pay for the full price."

"I gave you a full dragon and I expected change. You're telling me you went to the Hook and spent three hours comparing prices along the street only to spend more than a dragon on a single barrel of ale?"

A telltale hiccup prefaced Adam's next statement, "Aye, m'lord. It's these trying times. Men are charging more for their goods n' services because the War has been driving their supplies away."

"You don't need to explain supply economics to me, Adam," Chaucyr's family were wine merchants with business connections in Dorne and the Arbor. They were the cupbearers and suppliers to the Targaryen family on Dragonstone and came to King's Landing during the Conquest. Chaucyr's first education was vintages before he was sent as ward to Lady Velaryon and her incredible library.

"No, pardon, m'lord. The trade and sale of wines is your business, after all. Gods be good, I had no ship to the Arbor to retrieve ale from the source."

"Where did you retrieve the ale from?" Chaucyr cut off his scribe.

"W-where, m'lord?"

"Yes, where. Which alehouse?"

He stumbled over his words as he tried to collect his thoughts on the tips of his fingers, "If memory serves," _it clearly doesn't_, "it was from Baelor the Brewer's."

"You spent three hours comparing prices on one of the most expensive streets in the city at the base of the hill we live on and you decided _Baelor's _was the cheapest of the brews?" Chaucyr couldn't handle this anymore. _Gods be good, the Father and the Crone help me, "_Adam, pour me a horn and don't leave this room until you've copied down this revision of the Prologue." He handed Adam the paper he was just working with. If Adam couldn't copy this one down right away, he was done. Chaucyr was going to appeal to the next King for patronage and then find another place for Adam to serve. Maybe the City Watch. They always seemed to need men to keep the peace, and provided a hot pot every day for starving boys like Adam.

Chaucyr walked over to the barrel and poured himself a horn of ale. He couldn't afford Baelor's Brew every day. His last contract with Aerys, that Robert then upheld, allowed Chaucyr a barrel of Castle Red per day. Chaucyr relished the days when he could just carry his barrel over to the Red Keep's vintners and simply fill up his barrel. Chaucyr never emptied a barrel a day, so he simply began stocking up on barrels of Castle Red to have when he wanted to host guests, or for inevitable winter, when it would be too cold to walk to the winery.

_Gods be good. Baelor the Brewer sure does make a fine ale. _Adam's hard-headedness wasn't entirely terrible.

Living above the gates of the Red Keep had its advantages. Looking out the western window, Chaucyr was a witness to so many historical events. Some brilliant. Others not so much. He was often called upon to be the King's emissary to the Free Cities. Chaucyr was versed in the vulgar Valyrian tongues of Braavos, Pentos, and Myr. He had once even visited the ancestral home of his Gods. The Hills of Andalos were quite the sight. The people there, the real Andals, had such a different religion than the kind that developed in Westeros…

And all the time, he was collected story after story to put together in his masterpiece.

He took another sip of Baelor's. Delicious. Maybe he shouldn't be so hard on the boy. He simply needed a firmer hand to guide his progress. Perhaps if the next King granted Chaucyr patronage, he could get a second apprentice. One higher born that could keep Adam in line. Yes, that's what he'll do.

A horn blew. Adam looked up from his work and asked Chaucyr, "What news, m'lord."

"Keep working," Chaucyr responded, though he was just as curious as the boy. He leaned toward the window and gazed. Indeed, what _was _that out there. As they came closer, Chaucyr saw it was a caravan of horses in polished armor and waving hundreds (_hundreds!_) of banners. As they came closer, Chaucyr began to recognize so many. There at the lead were three. One was the unmistakable sky blue hawk and moon of House Arryn. Next to that one were two that Chaucyr had to confess he did not recognize: a stone head on green and one green with dots. He recognized the crows and hearts of Heart's Home, the winged cup of New Keep, the broken wheel of Iron Oaks, the checkered red and white of Hardyng Keep, the bronze and runes of Runstone. The Lords of the Vale have arrived!

Over the past few weeks, Chaucyr made sure to visit the brothels and breweries of King's Landing to hear the talk of the Kingsmoot. Not being a landed House, Chaucyr could not claim to be part of the Kingsmoot, but he heard all the speculations along the way. How will Dorne vote? Will the West arrive in time? Can Myrcella sit the Iron Throne? How can we let one who doesn't worship the Seven rule over all of us? Will the Young Wolf conquer us too?

It was all very exciting.

The party of men and horses came closer and Chaucyr recognized that there weren't dots on that green banner in front, on par with House Arryn.

_Mockingbirds_.

It was said that inspiration was the child of all the Gods, the unspoken eighth God. Chaucyr was suddenly struck by inspiration's pen and sat down to write:

**_I sit atop the gate of the Red Keep  
__And witness the greater fineries of history.  
__Though no stag or wolf makes a peep  
__The lord of pen and gate makes no liveries.  
__In the face of more complicated bestiaries  
__Thus far only four-footed creatures that prowl  
__It has thus become a parliament of fowls. _**


	23. Robb V

**Robb**

The Lords of the Vale were quite the sight. Robb knew his aunt and cousin would be at the head of the column of knights and men-at-arms. But he did not recognize the man at the head of the column. He wore a suit of polished plate armor with a gilded mockingbird inlay in the breastplate. It was armor for show, and would be quite useless on the battlefield. But Robb had a feeling it was representative of a different kind of battle. He recognized the holder of the head banner, a flock of mockingbirds on green, by the doublet he wore: Ser Lyn Corbray. Strapped in on his own horse in his mother's lap was young, sickly, Robert Arryn who was given the opportunity to hold the hawk and moon of House Arryn. Another knight, in armor carved with sacred runes of the First Men held the banner with a stone head. He was a Royce, but not Bronze Yohn.

The man in the shiny armor leapt off his horse and removed his helmet. Dark hair topped a face with a pointed beard. The man lost too many feet when he stepped off the horse, and he was clearly wearing shoes to make him taller. After a moment and amidst the murmurs, Robb Stark knew exactly who he was looking at.

"Presenting, Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Eyrie, Lord of Baelish Keep, and former Master of Coin." Ser Lyn Corbray declared as Petyr Baelish marched up to the stairs where the aspirant kings sat.

"Lord Baelish!" his mother declared, "What is the meaning of this spectacle?"

"I think you know exactly what the meaning of this spectacle is," he said, displaying the most wicked of smiles, "I have come to cast my lot for this meeting of Kings."

The room exploded in a thousand discussions. What could be more scandalous than this?

"Lord Baelish, you are not the Lord Paramount of the Eyrie," Lady Stark clarified.

"No," Lysa said. She dismounted and helped sickly Robert down from the horse. A man-at-arms took the Arryn banner and placed it over by the set of tables reserved for the Valelords, "That title belongs to my sweetrobin. But he is too young to make those decisions, and it is my place as Lady of the Eyrie to make them. So I am here to cast _my _lot for the Kingsmoot which you have so ungraciously started without us, dear sister."

Lady Catelyn was trying oh so hard to resist berating her sister, "We sent many ravens to the Vale requesting your son to cast his lot…"

"And yet as we prepared to leave, you cast how many votes?"

Robb lost count and no one seemed ready to give Lysa Arryn the exact number of votes they'd cast since the Kingsmoot began, "If you are ready to vote, please sit so we can cast the vote."

"Now hold on," Petyr Baelish started, "I believe I should say a few words."

"And what words would you have to say, Littlefinger?" Stannis Baratheon was clearly not happy at this turn of events. Their relationship clearly did not blossom after all of those years on the Small Council.

"I will use my words to tell the Lords of Westeros why I should be their king."

Chaos. Pure chaos erupted from the Room as Lords from Dorne to the North protested against Littlefingers candidacy. All except for the Lords of the Vale who sat silently, expecting the best from Lord Baelish. Robb saw his aunt's eyes fixed on the little Valelord standing there in armor that would never see a field. She smiled just as wickedly as he did.

"Quiet! Quiet _please_!" the Maester boomed.

His mother spoke up, "Lord Baelish, you are aware of the constraints? You must have at least fifteen Lords support your candidacy before you can aspire to the Iron Throne."

From behind his breastplate, Littlefinger pulled a scroll of parchment and unrolled it with a flick of his wrist. He displayed it to the Throne Room before reading: "We, the Lords Declarant, here cast our lot with Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn, Petyr Baelish." Below that weren't just fifteen names, but _twenty_. Twenty Lords declared for Petyr Baelish and wanted to see him seated on the Iron Throne. When he was done reading off the list of names, he handed the parchment to the Maester who verified the signatures and handed the paper to Tyrion Lannister for counting.

Five. Five claimants to the Throne now sat before the Lords of Westeros for choosing. _There goes any hopes of pulling Aunt Lysa and Cousin Robert. _

"Now, may I speak?"

Stannis never looked so bloodthirsty, "Speak, Littlefinger. Let the Lords of Westeros know why they should seat someone who's holdings include a damp stone tower and a herd of sheep."

"I would be glad to," like a magician, Petyr Baelish whirled to face the Lords of Westeros and began to speak, "I understand that the greatest tragedy that currently befalls the Realm is not a surplus of swords or a deficiency in warriors, but the lack of capital. What has plagued the Realm since Robert sat? Gold. It was dragons who united the Realm, and it is still dragons who rule the Realm!" Littlefinger held up a gold coin, "What would we do without these? Go the way of the Dothraki and start exchanging sheep for slaves? No. I think not. Civilization is built upon gold and who knows how better to amass it than I? Who knew how better to spend it than Robert? I was the Master of Coin during Robert's reign and I spent far too much time pulling these tiny shiny dragons out of thin air for Robert Baratheon to drink away. In the end, however, we owed the Most Devout and the Iron Bank, and worst of all, House Lannister. It is gold that wins wars, and it is gold that starts wars. Tywin Lannister claimed a crown for his collateral, and marched out to seize it. The Gods have spoken: he failed. But even with Lannister debt absolved, how much do we still owe? A million to the Faith, and another two to Braavos. Neither can we invade or attack, and yet we still speak of seating soldiers? Noble Lords, as the former Master of Coin, I was certainly no warrior. It is not necessary to enthrone one. But what I am is one who can relieve the coinage crisis."

A man stood and shouted from the back of the Dornish table, "Didn't you let Robert bleed the Realm dry?" men from all over murmured agreement.

"Did I? In the chain of Master of Coin, Hand of the King, and King, who has the power in that relationship? I was the Master of Coin and found money for the Hand and the King to spend. The Hand delivered that coin to the King along with wise and prudent advice. Lord Jon Arryn, may the Father judge him justly, was an honorable man with a firm grasp on finances. Alas, King Robert would hear none of it and chose to drink himself an Arbor, to whore himself a Lys, and hold far more Tourneys than we have time or energy for. So ask yourself, can a King Stannis or a King Robb manage a problem they cannot cut through? Can King Renly be free of the excesses he clearly enjoys? I think not. As your King, I will search the Realm far and wide for a Jon Arryn of my own. And with my own coinage experience, and the final authority to make my decisions, Sers, I don't need to tell you how efficient, how smoothly the Realm will run as it has not since the days of the Conciliator."

_A nice touch, _Robb thought. All he had to compare himself to were the Kigns of Winter, a reference that was lost on Lords south of the Neck.

Renly and Stannis suddenly seemed to unite as Lord Baelish took his seat. They started to speak over each other as little Myrcella sat quietly. Between the two of them, the Baratheon brothers managed to eke out something along the lines of Lord Baelish being too lowborn to sit the Iron Throne, but could not manage who would speak first. Lady Anya Waynwood spoke first, "A vote!" to which the Lords of the Vale took up her cry, "A vote! A vote!"

Lords of the Reach began to speak in protest followed by the Stormlords and the Dornishmen. Clearly there was a powerful sentiment that Petyr Baelish was too lowborn to even be considered for the Iron Throne, but no one seemed to know how to vocalize such thoughts.

Robb found the Red Viper in the mass of faces before him. They shared the same look of confusion, _Now what? _


	24. Tyrion VI

**Tyrion**

Tyrion tallied the vote. And what he saw rocked him to his very core. The North was still solidly for their King, though there was no Greatjon cry of _King in the North!_ The Riverlands, starting from the south, began to abandon their King of the Trident in favor of Lord Baelish. The reverse happened in the West where the northern Westerlords (those farthest from Casterly Rock) cast their lot for Petyr Baelish, while the southern Westerlords stuck with Myrcella. The Crownlands were still a mess, with votes going between Renly, Robb, Stannis, and now Petyr. What shocked Tyrion the most was how many of the Reachlords splintered _from Renly_.

Renly's grasp of the Lords sworn to Highgarden no longer seemed as strong as it was before. His face almost melted into panic when he saw lords on the outskirts of the Reach's vast plain abandon his camp for that of Petyr Baelish. It was even worse when some Stormlords joined in.

All in all, it was a complete nightmare. Renly was still winning. But…

**R. Baratheon: 68 (34%)**

**P. Baelish: 49 (25%)**

**R. Stark: 37 (18%)**

**M. Baratheon: 31 (16%)**

**S. Baratheon: 15 (7%)**

One lost vote and Stannis was out of the running. Would Stannis even have the influence to sway those Lords in anyone's favor? Just more men for Petyr Baelish… what was Tyrion even thinking? What kind of spell did this one cast upon them?

Tyrion stood on his chair and raised his hands before he read out the results, "Maester!" the Maester joined the Small Council at the table and asked what was the matter, "This will be the final vote of the day. It must be."

"I don't quite understand, my lord?"

"After this, call a recess and declare this the final vote of the day, to resume on the morrow."

Lady Catelyn seemed appalled that Tyrion would even presume to take on such authority, "By what right do you mean to usurp another vote?"

"By my right as a Great Lord of Westeros and a member of the Small Council of the First Kingsmoot via the Treaty your son, the King in the North signed." Lady Catelyn didn't seem to know how to interpret what Tyrion just said. So she took it and ran with it, which was good enough for Tyrion.

The Maester read the results aloud. The whisper in the chamber grew to a dull roar as the Lords of Westeros seemed to hold back their mosaic of panic and discomfort. When the Maester declared that this would be the last vote of the day and the Kingsmoot would resume on the morrow, there was a collective sigh of relief delivered to all of the nervous lords. Even the Valelords that supported Petyr Baelish took his second-place victory and the break as a sign that their chosen King was on a victorious path.

Lord Baelish stood and bowed.

Catelyn Stark called him over before he could descend the stairs, "Lord Baelish, a moment if you will." When he was close enough to speak, he asked in the slyest tone, "Yes, Lady Stark?"

What Tyrion saw next was something he only thought would only ever be reserved for his own stumpy frame. Instead the slightly taller Littlefinger received the blow, "What in the Seven Hells do you think you're doing?"

Lord Baelish smiled wryly, "I'm sorry, I don't fully understand what you mean."

"You can't possibly mean to sit yourself on the Iron Throne."

"Oh but I do."

Tyrion stood, pushing his hands up on the table to make himself bigger, "This is absurd. What kind of game are you playing here?"

"I believe I am following the rules you laid out, to the letter. I am a Lord of Westeros. I have _far _more than fifteen Lords supporting my claim, and I will humbly submit to whichever of these fine Kings happens to win, just as they have promised to submit to me should I happen to win."

Tyrion suddenly usurped Catelyn Stark's anger, "I will say it again, what _game are you playing here, Littlefinger?" _

Petyr Baelish leaned in close to Tyrion and his wry vulpine smile suddenly distorted into something insidious, "The same game you presume to play, _Imp_. These men sitting here presume to conquer the whole of Westeros the same way they defeated the Lannisters, with swords. That's the wrong game. As soon as you and your friends sought to supplant swords with speeches and the vanguard with votes, you entered a different arena entirely. They called him the Mountain that Rides because he was a beast in a pit with a sword. This is a different pit, and you'll find that my sword isn't so Little at all. No my friend, this is _my _game. You _chose _to play."


	25. Brienne IV

**Brienne**

"Ser Loras, a word?"

The Lord Commander of the Rainbow Guard turned and saw Brienne, "What is it?"

"I simply hoped to speak to you about… a troublesome matter."

"Speak then. I have things to attend to."

"Are you a religious man, Lord Commander?"

He seemed struck by the question, "I'm sorry? I don't understand."

"You pray with the King quite often."

"I do." Ser Loras suddenly seemed offended, "Do you not offer the Gods your own piety, Lady Brienne?"

"I do, Ser."

"Then do not question the devotion I have for the Gods," Ser Loras made to turn when Brienne chose to question something else entirely…

"What about your devotion to the King?"

Ser Loras whirled with a violent look in his eyes, "What did you say, wench?"

Brienne tried not to lose herself in Ser Loras' insults. He was her superior, and she did not want to suddenly be perceived as a traitor, "I merely mean to ask how devoted you are to the King."

Ser Loras stepped forward and his hand started to twitch toward his sword, "I am the Lord Commander of King Renly's Rainbow Guard. I sit on his Small Council. I am the son of Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South and Lord Paramount of the Reach. What are you?"

_Remember: you're only a sword_, "The blue sword of the Rainbow Guard, Ser."

"And don't forget it. Swords are for protecting the King. Not for talking, _Brienne_." He said Brienne, but what he meant was wench. His hand stopped twitching and Ser Loras turned to walk into the chamber that was serving as King Renly's Small Council while the Kingsmoot was still in session.

When they all entered, Brienne stood on one side of the King's chair and Ser Emmon the Yellow stood on the other side. All of those Reachlords Brienne was beginning to distrust filed in and sat around the table. The King came in last with Ser Guyard the Green and Ser Parmen the Purple following him. The four Rainbow Guard guarded the corners of the room while the Small Council was in session.

Brienne noticed out of the corner of her eye how King Renly was not smiling as he used to.

"This. Changes. Everything." He spoke each word individually. Each carrying a profound new importance. Brienne had no idea who Petyr Baelish was, but he was not her King, and she couldn't stand the thought of such a man on the Throne.

"I imagine Lord Baelish…" the King's good-father began.

"Don't call him that. His name is _Littlefinger_."

"Sorry, Your Grace, I imagine Littlefinger most likely wants his old position on the council back. He want to be Master of Coin once more."

"That cannot be," Lord Redwyne began, "What he's offering is a crown, he'll want the Handship."

"We cannot let such a man hold the Realm hostage," Randyll Tarly said, "Ally with Robb Stark and Stannis. We can force Littlefinger off the seat if we must."

"Robb Stark would never betray his honor that way," Renly said, exasperated, "And Stannis cares for nothing if not the law. He signed the document, as I did. Stannis hates Littlefinger throughout the core of his being, but he'll submit to Iron Throne when this debacle is over."

"But will he be kneeling to Littlefinger?" Tarly said.

Renly slammed his fist on the table. It was the first show of physical exertion Brienne had seen from him. He did not appear to enjoy it, "Damn that whoremonger. Damn him to hell. I would sit the Iron Throne _today _if not for him. Robb Stark rejected our offer of dual monarchy. He demanded the Riverlands as his price. Perhaps we should revisit that deal."

"And offer him the larger half of the Realm?" Ser Loras said, "Piss on that. On the morrow the other Lords will come to their senses and realize a man as lowborn as Littlefinger cannot sit the Iron Throne. It was luck was all. We were talking about a gold dragon that must be slain and he happened to show up with a gold sword to do it. He's right, neither Stannis or Robb Stark could deal with a financial crisis. And while Littlefinger may be the better accountant with a sorcerer's voice, he _will _lose."

The Reachlords seemed to uncomfortably agree with Ser Loras's assessment. Brienne wasn't sure how she felt herself. Tarth was an old House, but hardly any more or less noble than House Baelish. Does House Baelish's youth make it any less formidable than House Tyrell than Brienne's sex makes her any less formidable than Ser Loras?

Mace Tyrell searched through a stack of papers to do some arithmetic, "If we can swing Robb Stark. We will have just over half the Lords on our side. If we end up swinging Lor – Littlefinger, we'll have just under 60%. And with that number, men will come seeking us for favor and we'll hit 2/3 within one more vote."

"Fine then. We will ask both men what they want and see what the best course of action would be. Ser Parmen, ask for an audience with Littlefinger. Ser Guyard, invite Robb Stark to my solar. We'll all convene here after supper." Renly stood and the Lords all got up and left. Ser Loras, Brienne, and Ser Emmon all followed King Renly to his solar where Ser Loras asked Brienne and Parmen to wait outside the door. Brienne interrupted the Lord Commander and asked, "Your Grace, may I have a brief word with you?"

Ser Loras glared at her.

King Renly seemed a bit perplexed as to the nature of Brienne's word, "Uh… why not? A member of the Rainbow Guard is always pleasant company."

"Alone, if you will?"

Ser Loras' glare was sharper than before. He looked at Renly, who then nodded, smiling, as if he was assuring the Knight of Flowers that there was nothing to fear. Ser Loras left the solar to stand outside.

"What's may I do for you?"

"Your Grace, I've come to ask you the nature of your prayers."

"My… prayers?" Renly asked, walking over to his desk and pouring a glass of wine.

"Yes, your Grace. You see, I realize that you are a pious man. And oft when you pray, Ser Loras joins you. Far be it from me to question a man's relationship with the Gods, but there are whispers. And I wonder if it might be more prudent to pray alone in this time of sensitivity."

"This time of sensitivity is especially why I must pray my hardest, Brienne. You don't want to serve my godless brother? Or the tree-worshipper? Or," Renly groaned with disgust, "the whoremonger?"

"Of course not, your Grace. I would never ask a man to not pray. Just that it might be more prudent to _pray alone_."

"I'm sorry, Brienne. I don't mean to disturb you with these whispers you might hear, but that's all they are. Whispers. Tell me, does your sword make a sound when you swing it?"

"Yes, your Grace."

"Does it make a sound when you shove it into a man?"

"Yes, your Grace."

"What does the sound tell you?"

_Remember: you're only a sword_, "It tells me nothing, your Grace."

"Then think of these whispers in the same way. They tell you nothing," Renly drank his wine and poured another glass, "Please send Ser Loras in when you leave. I'll await Robb Stark with him. Perhaps pray a bit as well."


	26. Robb VI

**Robb**

Robb sat in his solar with his uncle Edmure in silence. Everything had suddenly changed and there seemed to be no perceived way out of the situation except to go to Littlefinger and ask what he wanted. All Robb knew was that Lord Eddard was dead and Littlefinger was aspiring to the Iron Throne. His mother warned him, "Do not deal with him. Do not trust him. Your father trusted him, and look what happened."

Then Dacey knocked at the door.

Edmure opened it and she took a step inside, "Your Grace, there are two messengers here. One from Lord Renly, one from Lord Stannis." Robb looked to Edmure and they shared a knowing look. Whichever Robb went with meant the other would be scorned. If he could not manage a deal with Stannis, one would not form with Renly and vice versa. Renly seemed like he would not deal. He was perhaps offering Robb Stark the same deal as before. But they had not spoken with Stannis yet…

"Dismiss Lord Renly's messenger." Robb buckled his sword belt and followed Dacey out of the room. There in front of the two messengers, Robb found Ser Guyard dressed all in green waiting beside the Onion Knight. Robb nodded to Ser Davos before saying, "Give my regards to Lord Renly. I would be willing to speak to him when I am done with Lord Stannis." Ser Guyard stormed away after a silent huff. _That should go over well_.

Ser Davos said little after he began, "You've done quite well, Your Grace."

"I'm not your King yet, Ser Davos."

"But if you are, I don't think that would be such a bad thing."

Robb wasn't sure how to take that. He couldn't imagine sitting the Iron Throne and ruling like a southerner. They'd berate him for bringing his Northern customs to court. And if he even so much as looked in Arianne Martell's direction again, too many memories of the Blackfyres would come rushing back to those very same lords.

"Here we are, Your Grace," Ser Davos opened the door. Robb looked around the room and saw King Stannis sitting behind a desk with a map of Westeros on it. The room lacked any fineries or anything not directly useful. Robb automatically assumed the pitcher on the desk was filled with water.

"King Stannis."

"Robb Stark, I mean to discuss with you this debauchery we have found ourselves in."

"You mean the Kingsmoot."

"I do," Stannis confirmed Robb's suspicions when he poured two goblets of water, "I like to presume we understand each other. We fought together at the Moat Cailin and Deepwood Motte. Together we threw back Mance Rayder."

Robb drank from his goblet, "I do think we understand each other."

"Then why do you still vie for my Throne?"

Robb looked away for a moment and thought, "Honor," he said, "My Lords, from Last Hearth to Riverrun have named me King. And I owe them the opportunity to rule themselves independently of southron rule. To give up, to simply kneel to a new southron overlord… what honor is there in that decision?"

"More than you think." Stannis Baratheon appeared as if he was going to draw that shiny sword at his hip, but he drew instead a roll of parchment and held it out for Robb Stark to read. The seal was broken, but Robb made it out plain as day: the direwolf of Stark.

_To His Grace, Stannis of the House Baratheon,_

_By the time you receive this letter, your brother Robert, our king these past fifteen years will be dead. He was savaged by a boar whilst hunting in the kingswood… _

The words twisted and turned until they simply declared that Joffrey and Tommen were base born sons of incest between Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime. That makes the Lannisters usurpers and Lord Stannis the rightful King on the Iron Throne. It was all information Robb already understood, except for the script and the name scrawled at the bottom.

_Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, and Protector of the Realm_

Robb couldn't help but feel like he was holding a piece of his father in his hands. It may have been the last thing he wrote, just before Littlefinger betrayed him and Joffrey cut his head off. Robb held the parchment tightly and wanted to find a heart tree, to pray to the Old Gods to send a message, _I killed him, Father, I killed Joffrey the Illborn. I avenged your death and I did it myself. I know what death is. _

"As you can see, Robb Stark," Stannis said, "your father supported my claim. The honor in your title is contrived, shouted into your ear by the Greatjon and Rickard Karstark. Shout all you want, you can shout to the wind and declare yourself a tree, but truth doesn't rely on volume any more than a blacksmith relies on a brothel."

Robb put the sheet on the desk and wandered over to the window. The sun was setting over the Riverlands.

"If Lord Eddard was alive, he would have told you to declare for me. Now what do you say, Robb Stark?"

Robb had no desire to sit the Iron Throne. A chair in the south that cut you when you tried to sit in it, why? Why bother? He turned to King Stannis and began, "I've been conversing with House Martell. They promised to swing the West and Dorne in my favor if I grant Dornish internal autonomy. Lord Renly offered the same for the North if I swung him my support. I demanded the same internal autonomy be extended to the Riverlands since they already declared me King of the Trident in order to sway my supporters in his favor. Lord Renly would not grant me that border. If you consent, King Stannis, to the internal autonomy of the North, the Riverlands, and Dorne, I can assure you their vote."

Stannis looked like he was about to burst with wildfire, "You have been conspiring with Dorne and the Imp?"

"Conversing. Nothing has been set in stone. I never personally spoke to Lord Ty…"

"I am your King by _rights_. You besmirch everything your father and his house stood for when you conspire against me and make demands like the usurper you are."

"It is not a demand."

"It is! You presume to come here at my own summons and tell me what for. How _dare _you. I am the Lord's chosen one, and the rightful King of Westeros. Does law mean _nothing _to a man of honor such as this?"

"If you offer me the internal autonomy of the North, I cannot do you anything. If you offer me the internal autonomy of the North and the Riverlands, I can only grant you those. If you offer me Dorne as well, I can gather you the most support."

"To win the Throne and lose the Kingdoms? What kind of honor is it, in the North, to ask a man, to ask a _King_, to sell his own?"

"I can only offer you what I have."

"You disappoint me, Robb Stark. I will remember this treachery. When I am your crowned liege lord, you will rue the day you made demands of your King." Stannis marched out from the desk and threw open the door, "Ser Davos, see the Lord of Winterfell out."

Robb left the room thankfully behind and passed the red woman going in the opposite direction. The red jewel at her throat pulsed like an evil heartbeat. Stannis Baratheon stood the worst chance of winning the Kingsmoot. But if that was so, why did Robb feel so uneasy about this whole thing?


	27. Brienne V

**Brienne**

Brienne took her leave of the castle. She needed time to think. If anything, she just had to sort out all of the thoughts in her head. From King Renly, to Ser Loras, to the Queen. There was something horribly afoot that she couldn't just manage to wrap her head around.

_Remember: you're only a sword_.

Brienne wandered and found herself on the Street of Silk. She soon noticed it seemed to be the one street where no one looked at her with horror. The whores were too busy looking at the men looking at them. The men did not even look at her. They saw the armor, they saw the physique, and they passed her off as another man looking for a whore.

_Remember: you're only a sword._

She passed the Street of Silk and the looks returned but Brienne cared less than she thought she could. She lumbered onto the Hook and decided she was thirsty. A sword still needed to be whet.

_Remember: you're only a sword. _

"My lady, you seem lost."

Brienne looked up and saw a silver-haired man with a square jaw. He was large, armored, and had an easy smile. Brienne thought maybe he wasn't looking at her. She wasn't used to seeing men's smiles, "I'm sorry, Ser…"

"Lother Brune."

Brienne then recognized the bear's paw sigil on his doublet, "Ser, I was just being pensive. I think I need a drink to think clearly."

"Well, I know the best place to get one. Gift of the gods." Ser Lother turned and offered his arm to Brienne. Brienne was completely unsure of how to proceed… so she took his arm and tried not to think of Renly. Ser Lothor led them to Baelor the Brewer's. He let Brienne choose a table while he went and ordered a pair of horns and a flagon of the finest ale this side of King's Landing.

He arrived and poured for Brienne.

"What seems to be on your mind?"

Brienne wasn't sure how to respond, "Why are you being so kind to me, Ser?"

"I am an anointed knight, my lady. It is my job to help ladies in distress."

"I am no lady," Brienne sipped her ale.

"Well you're one of the prettiest boys I've ever seen. Not counting the Knight of Flowers maybe. Though I'd be interested to see what parts he carries. I have my doubts."

Brienne chuckled until she remembered that Ser Loras was half the reason she was sitting here with Ser Lothor the Stranger.

"If I do remember correctly, you are Brienne the Blue, or Renly's Rainbow Guard?"

"The one and the same."

"Why are you outside the Red Keep? Shouldn't you be guarding the King?"

"The King is guarded," Brienne responded, finishing her first horn. Ser Lothor poured her another, "I needed to get out of the castle for a little while."

"They don't have ale in the Red Keep? It sounds like a terrible place."

Brienne laughed again, "They do. But it's… restraining, if you will."

"I will. These past few days it's been more and more crowded, what with the arrival of the Westerlords and the Valelords. Perhaps it's good for our space issue that the Ironborn seem so preoccupied with themselves."

So they continued. Brienne asked why Ser Lothor decided to speak to her instead of any of the whores on the next street over. Ser Lothor told her of his travels all across Westeros and Essos, from Dorne to Qarth to Skagos. He'd seen every type of whore and willing maiden that he had no interest in an anonymous romp in the hay if at all. But what he did find were the stories. He poured Brienne another. He once met a girl from Lys who'd traveled all the way from her home in Yi Ti to the red priests of Asshai. Only to escape their clutches and end up in a Lyseni brothel when she was unsure of where to go next. He poured Brienne another. Another woman, that Ser Lothor never slept with, was a paramour to a Qartheen merchant who once was married to a young Dothraki khal. He went and got himself killed. The woman was forced to join the… what was it? _Dosh khaleen _and drink fermented mare's milk all day and night. She gave one or two prophecies in her time, one that even led one Khal to go to Pentos to get married. He poured Brienne another. He met another woman on the Stony Shore who descended from a long line of Ironborn kings and his salt wife. They had their own tales to tell, First Men legends about gods long forgotten and their battles with the Storm God and the Drowned God, themselves in constant war. He poured Brienne another.

Brienne decided it was time to tell her own tale:

She told Ser Lother about how she was a girl on Tarth. How all the men scorned her and were shocked at how ugly she was. Eventually, she learned her place wasn't in a dress, but a suit of armor. Brienne gradually learned the knight's dance to the scorn of the Lords of Westeros who wanted nothing more than Brienne's inheritance. Lord Selwyn had no heirs. The one time she ever felt like a Lady, though, was when Renly came to Tarth and treated her like no man ever did. He danced and proved his feet were as fast his brain. Brienne wanted him. She would consent to marry Lord Renly if he would have her. She could unite Tarth and Storm's End. Together they would rule the Realm, and Lord Renly would be King. That's why she wanted to fight for him, because he was a King worthy of her sword. But he had to marry Margaery Tyrell. Brienne knew that. She knew it was political and military. If she couldn't have him in the marriage bed, then she would at least prove her love on the battlefield. Renly couldn't resist that, could he? He couldn't look at her with scorn like the other men did. He would never call her a freak, or bet on her maidenhead. He was a King. He was the most worthy King, and Brienne would do whatever she could for him.

"And then what happened?"

He poured Brienne another.

"I saw him with… with someone else."

"Well, the King is married."

"No. It wasn't his wife. I know King Renly is married. I know it's a loveless marriage. Why else would he marry the witch of Highgarden? Not for love, no. For her inheritance. For her army. For her money. Tarth cannot field a tenth of Highgarden's strength. But I saw him with his true love. And they both looked at me later with disgust. Then I knew."

"What did you know?"

"I knew how much Ser Loras hated me. How much King Renly disregarded me. I thought he was the only man worthy of me. But I was wrong. Polity is worthless, and unbecoming of a man who wants a woman. And I knew when I saw them, I knew that I knew all along. Renly does not want a woman. He never did."

"What did he want?"

"He wants Ser Loras. He has Ser Loras… but I still loved the King. I begged him not to pray with Ser Loras. Not while he may still be my king. I cannot please the King with my maiden's gift, or my womanly features. I have too little of one for him to bother with t'other. So if I could at least please the King with my sword, that would be enough. But it's not. It's never enough for men like him. He is going to lose the Throne because of his love. Because he refuses to be careful. I know what he does when he _prays_. And it is an abomination… to do that to another man and call it _praying_."

"Lady Brienne…"

"I am not lady, _Ser_." Brienne pointed at him with a gloved fist, pouring ale in the process, "I am Brienne the Blue. The unwanted sworn sword of _Queen _Renly the Pious. Don't you see that? I do. I have seen it. And I have heard the Queen's Queen as well. And between the door, my sword, and my vows, what am I to do? What can I do? There is nothing."

Ser Lothor put his hand on Brienne's shoulder. He poured Brienne another.

"I know just what to do, my lady."

Brienne drank.


	28. Robb VII

**Robb**

He suddenly realize he had not eaten since he broke his fast that morning with his wife and mother. During war, appetite was never a problem, nor did a King lack for food. Here in King's Landing, food was plentiful (especially for a King) but he found that he wasn't hungry at all. Even wanting to eat to keep his strength up became an issue. Robb simply knew he wouldn't be able to eat.

The King in the North went to the kennels instead. He opened the door and saw the kennel masters, boys no younger than Robb himself, who tried to stay as far away from Grey Wind's cage as possible. When Robb looked inside, he saw the direwolf lying on his side with open eyes. His coat was as lush as ever, but it seemed off. Robb opened the gate and walked in.

When he set his hand on Grey Wind's side, he found that the direwolf was all fur. The tiny force he applied flattened the fur against Grey Wind's body and went right to his ribs. Robb was never able to fell that before. Grey Wind feasted like no beast ever had the right to.

Robb shot up and called to the frightened kennel boys, "Why has he not eaten?"

Now there was a direwolf and an angry king in the kennel. One boy finally stepped forward and confessed, "Your Grace… we throw meat in the pen, but he refuses to eat."

Robb looked down at the direwolf, who then looked up at Robb and gingerly licked his hand, "I know," Robb whispered, "I hate this place too."

It was another sign: Robb needed to return to the North. He needed to put his father's bones to rest. He needed to rebuild Winterfell. He needed to see Jon and discuss resettling the Gift. There was work to do. What business did he have contesting the Iron Throne?

Eddard Stark knew what to do. He knelt to Robert Baratheon, and if the Mad King had not been so mad, or if Rhaegar had won at the Trident, Eddard Stark would have bent the knee and submitted to their rule. There was honor in that decision. _I should do that. I should gather Dacey, and the Greatjon, and the rest of the Northlords and go home. I have a wife, I can rebuild our family. Four sons: an Eddard, a Hoster, a Bran, and a Rickon. And two daughters: Sansa and Arya. _He set out to save his father and sisters and instead lost his brothers too. The Young Wolf must be the only king who ever won every battle, won the war, and lost his home and family. What kind of King did that make him? Robb Stark the Houseless. Robb the Last Stark.

It must be Renly.

Robb stood and told Grey Wind, "Come."

He mounted a horse and led Grey Wind out of the Red Keep. They walked slowly, letting silenced gasps, some forced bows, and contorted whispers guide their path around Rhaenys' Hill past Flea Bottom and to the Dragon's Gate. The guards saw the King in the North and his direwolf and steered clear of the beast. Robb wondered if it was the battlefield reputation or the simple fact that Grey Wind was ferocious even in his emaciated state.

They left by the northernmost gate of the city. And started walking along the road. Robb would turn back, but it felt good to point north with his best friend. Robb wondered if Grey Wind knew. Did he know that his brothers and sisters were gone forever? Did wolves understand death?

He did. He returned to Winterfell, burned shell though it was when he found it. But his father went south on a King's demand. Only bones came back. His grandfather and uncle went south on a different King's demand. Only bones came back. Robb would not let that happen to him. He would return to Winterfell. Robb the Last Stark. He would rule with honor, like his father did. He would honor the document he signed. Just as the other Kings would.

It must be Renly.

Renly would at least give them the North. Edmure would understand. Robb would go to him, apologize for everything he said before, and beg forgiveness. He would tell all his lords to vote for Renly. He didn't care about his crown any more. He only wanted to go home. His mother could not stand to lose another child.

Her _last _child.

Robb had to finish what he started. He would see the Kingsmoot through whatever end it had. He would kneel to the next King, and he would go home to rebuild Winterfell, to father sons and daughters, and he would leave the south forever. He would never calls his banners but to defend the North. And when some King asked Robb for swords and spears, he would gather his force at the Moat Cailin and wait. And the North would be free, one way or another. But Grey Wind didn't need to stay.

Robb dismounted and took hold of Grey Wind's face, "Go home. To Winterfell. You know the way. I'll find you soon. The south is no place for wolves."

_No place for wolves. _

Grey Wind licked Robb's face and then turned. His trot soon turned into a run as he headed north, disappearing into the night. Robb envied him, but he would follow soon enough. They would reunite and sit in the Great Hall and rule. And Robb would teach his sons how to be men of honor. He would tell them how they descended from Kings, and how the North was a safe place for Starks. He would reach his hand over and touch his wife's hand. After the feasts with his bannermen and the passing of the mead between the Lords of the North, he would carry Arianne to bed and they'd keep producing descendants. That didn't even matter as long as they were happy. Like the steam vents in the walls of the castle, the woman from the land of the sun would warm his bed.

Robb corrected his fantasy. He adjusted her face, her hair, her skin, and figure and forced Roslin to take Arianne's place. What honor was there in those thoughts? To bed a Dornish woman in place of his wife? To father a bastard.

_Like my father_.

"You seem troubled, King in the North."

Robb turned around. It was dark, but the voice and the glowing jewel at her throat were unmistakable, "My Lady."

"Melisandre, if you please."

"It does not."

"Then call me whatever you like. Just as your people do with you." Robb tried to look away, but she walked toward him and started to circle like a shark, "Lord of Winterfell. Warden of the North. King in the North. King of the Trident. Robb the Boy. The Young Wolf."

"I don't care what they call me," Robb said.

"No. You don't. What do you care for?"

_Home. _"It's no business of yours."

"Oh but it is. Do you know why I am here, Robb Stark?"

"I assume it has something to do with making our lives in Westeros difficult."

She laughed at that, "Quite the contrary. I am here to _help _Westeros. Too long has this land worshiped stone masks and trees. What power do the trees have? Where were the trees when your father was murdered?"

"You ask me to turn against my gods? Do you think my life is worth my honor?"

"Is it?" she smiled.

"What is your honor worth, Robb Stark?"

A thousand thoughts flooded through his head. He would give away his honor if he could have his family back, "My brothers. My sisters. My father."

"And her?" _She knows_.

"No."

"There is no honor in lies, Lord of Winterfell. Your father was an honorable man, was he not? Until it came to another woman."

"Even then," Robb insisted, "there was honor in his decisions. He raised Jon beside me when he could have left Jon on the side of the road to die, on his way home. He owed that child or that woman any loyalty."

"But his honor was besmirched. Do not deny it."

Robb couldn't.

"Is your honor worth her? How can you put the price of a woman's love, over favor with the one God who could give you everything." She leaned in close to him, as if she was going to kiss him, "Your home. Your family. Your love. All you have to do, is submit to the Lord of Light. Say the words, and he will protect you and your House."

Robb looked into her eyes and saw fire, "Submit to your fire god and he will protect me? He will give me everything I want?"

"Everything."

Robb considered the implications for only a brief moment, "I have seen fire, Melisandre. It consumed my home and killed my family. You are wrong. Fire has taken everything from me." Robb mounted his horse and went back to the Red Keep to finish this.


	29. Tyrion VII

**Tyrion**

Black bacon and dark beer was Tyrion's favorite way to break his fast. It was even better knowing this whole Kingsmoot ordeal might be over by evening. Especially if Littlefinger spent the night conspiring and scheming. Who knew what machinations the Mockingbird was making. As this point, Tyrion didn't care. Black bacon and dark beer helped that along.

He heard a loud knock at the door of his solar, "Come in."

The Red Viper walked in looking less than please. Tyrion tried to soften whatever blow he was feeling by offering him some bacon and beer. The Red Viper poured himself a glass but said he'd already eaten. He asked Tyrion if he heard the news.

"What news?"

"Do you know a Lothor Brune?"

"The estranged knight of Brownhollow? I only know of him in passing. Why?"

"Apparently he was in the Red Keep last night demanding an urgent audience with Lord Renly. Ser Emmon Cuy, the Yellow, was on guard duty. He assured Ser Lothor that the King was _praying_. And King Renly is never to be disturbed when he is praying. He's a _very_ pious man you see and prays daily."

"Go on." Tyrion said with a mouth full of bacon.

"Well, Ser Lothor held up a roll of parchment and said the King needs to read it. Ser Emmon made to grab the parchment, but Ser Lothor insisted that his instructions were to give it to the King and no other. No one but the King. Ser Emmon and Ser Lothor fought briefly before Brune passed by Ser Emmon and burst through the King's door."

The Red Viper let the words hang there as he finished what was left in his glass. He poured himself another, as if he needed the alcohol to keep going during the story.

Tyrion was held in suspense, "And? What did the parchment say?"

"That hasn't been affirmed. I'm actually beginning to doubt the presence of a parchment in the story."

"I'm beginning to lose interest, what's the point of all this?"

"When Ser Lothor Brune barged into Renly's study, it called into question Renly's method of prayer. You see, he prays with his cock. And Ser Lothor saw it was inside someone. Someone not his wife."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. Ser Lothor saw Renly praying into Ser Loras… and that's that."

"Where did you hear this story from?"

"It was written down and signed by Ser Bonifer Hasty."

"Ser Bonifer is a holy man… I don't think he lies easily. But maybe if there was a price in it. Still, everyone knows that Renly and Ser Loras were…"

"Everyone _assumed_, but now they know."

"Still, where's the confirmation?"

"Ser Emmon left Renly's service."

Tyrion dropped his fork and buried his face in his hands, "Littlefinger. This is Littlefinger's doing. I don't know how he did it, but he did it."

"And who benefits from Renly's downfall?"

"This can't be Littlefinger's plan, to crown himself. It simply doesn't fit his style. I've seen his books. He hides behind the scenes. He sneaks and slinks and whispers and gets other people to do his bidding. He establishes himself as the undercurrent of power while having someone else be the target for abuse and attack… this doesn't make any sense. He wants something. He wants to build enough strength to swing it over to the person who offers him…" it dawned on Tyrion, "the Handship. He wants to be Hand of the King. And he wants either Robb Stark or Myrcella. Robb Stark promises a hands-off approach and Myrcella is a child… either way we are just handing the Realm over to Littlefinger."

Tyrion poured another glass of beer, "I think escaping to the Summer Islands sounds nice at this point. Littlefinger is not a man I want behind the Iron Throne. To think of what he could do sitting on it…"

"That won't happen." The Red Viper said.

"Do you have a plan?"

"Littlefinger says he's good at solving problems that can't be cut through. Unfortunately, some of us are not so tidy or as skilled in those things. I just wanted us to be in agreement about this news, Lord of Casterly Rock. Keep marshaling as much support as you can for Myrcella or Robb. I fear the Stormlords will abandon Renly for Stannis and the Reachlords for Petyr. Once Littlefinger marshals the most strength out of the Kings, they'll start to gravitate to him. He'll make promises one by one and they'll believe him. Seven hells, he'll probably make promises he can keep even… but Littlefinger's gifts are poisoned. Well, he's not the only one fond of poison. Mark my words, my Lord of Lannister, I will end this."

The Red Viper marched out of Tyrion's solar as quickly as he had come. Tyrion wished the Red Viper at least let him finish breaking his fast before he ruined what was left on the plate. Tyrion called Pod in and told him to enjoy whatever was left. Tyrion journeyed to the window. He didn't know it was possible for a sunrise to seem so ominous.


	30. Jaime III

**Jaime**

The designs Tyrion sent Jaime were given to the best smiths in Lannisport who gathered built it, and then gilded it. When Jaime strapped it on, he found all five fingers were adjustable and could hold anything as delicate as a wine glass, or as sturdy as a sword. Excited he was – somewhat – whole again, Jaime found his cousin Ser Daven and asked him to practice with him. Jaime could hold a sword with his right mechanical hand well enough and it could impact a shield or stab through flesh without falling out, but it involved a whole different set of movements.

Jaime had been reading more history and found that the ancient First Men who inhabited Dorne before the Andal or Rhoynar invasions carried enormous, round, bronze shields that were, at times, more effective weapons than their swords. Jaime commissioned a shield made out of studier material than bronze. The last thing he needed was to get cut to pieces from outdated metallurgy.

Holding a short sword in his mechanical gold-plated hand designed by his brother, and an enormous, round shield in his left hand that tested the very strength of his arm, Jaime tried to devise his own strategy for fighting, luring Daven in with his short sword and shield and when he got close enough, to beat him back, or on his feet, with the enormous weight of the shield.

After unsuccessfully attempting to knock his cousin to the ground once more Daven finally opened the question, "Have you devised a defense for the castle, cos?"

"Does a Lannister pay his debts?" Jaime backed up and tried to catch his breath. The shield really took a toll on his good arm.

"Well what's the plan?" Ser Daven eagerly awaited the response.

Jaime set the shield down and wiped the sweat from his brow, "Typical siege tactics. Except we're going to take the offensive before we're forced to hole up behind these walls."

"Sounds like a good Lannister strategy. How many men do we have?"

"Of our own, readily at our disposal? Around ten thousand."

Ser Daven did not like that at all. It was clear he was expecting at least twice that number to attack the Rock, if not more. Siege took a harder toll on the attacker than it did on the defender, but still. House Lannister was already weak enough, "We couldn't get any more then?"

"There's just not enough time. Ser Kevan mentioned at one point we should try offering the Golden Company a price, but they Disputed Lands are a bit far to gather a force so quickly." Jaime took a drink of water, "Don't worry, we have Tyrion on our side."

"Your brother? Forgive me, cos, but he's a bit far and a bit short to be of much tactical use." Ser Daven sat down next to Jaime's shield and brushed his hair out of his eyes. He – very appropriately – looked like a lion with that mane of gold hair he vowed to grow out until his father was avenged. Of course, the war ended and Robb Stark was in King's Landing. So it would never get cut.

"Where do you think I got the plans for this?" Jaime held up his golden hand.

"I don't know," Daven said, "I figured a man has to pleasure himself some how."

Jaime laughed, "Oh, cos, you know what they say about hands of gold."

Ser Daven sheathed his sword and stood, "It's getting late. Don't you think it's about time…"

"Indeed, it is." Jaime sheathed his own sword and walked out of the training yard with Ser Daven. Together they walked to the courtyard of Lannisport where the cavalry of hedge knights and sworn swords were gathering for the day's assault. They simply needed confirmation from the heralds that the Gold and Silver forces were close enough for the plan to succeed. Even then, Jaime had to admit the plan was completely ludicrous and he was taking Tyrion's plans way too seriously for them to work, but maybe it was just crazy enough.

They entered the command tent with the captains of Jaime's patch job army. On an enormous map of the West, Jaime outlined the plan. As the Lefford forces descended down the River Road, Jaime would lead the van north for a brief battle, making the Stafford army careless in pursuit. Then he would spring the trap.

Ser Daven's cavalry would do the same thing down the Goldroad against Serrett forces, but there was no trap on that end. It was only to force them into an engagement when they were preparing for a siege. His cousin would take the larger force and make an effort at damaging any siege engines Serrett was sure to be bringing to the Rock.

Meanwhile Casterly Rock was filled to the brim with defensive equipment. There were so many fire-based defenses involved at this point, Jaime was worried the Rock itself might combust. He put aside that worry because at least the castle won't be in the hands of the Alliance.

A war horn sounded. And another, louder. And another, louder than the previous horns. Ser Daven roared as only a lion could for his men to prepare for battle. Jaime fixed a long sword into his golden hand and carried a wooden heater for the ride. He'll try his new stuff later.


	31. Robb VIII

**Robb**

Robb opened the door to his solar. He wasn't quite sure where Roslin had gone off to, but he didn't care. He needed to go to the godswood and pray. It needed to be Renly, but Robb was honor bound to Stannis. He'd gone this far, he had to see this through to the end. His bannermen would understand. They'll vote for Renly, regardless of his relationship with the Knight of Flowers. Robb certainly didn't care.

He opened the door and found Roslin just about to reach for the handle. They shocked each other, "Robb!" she had a smile stretched tight across her face.

"Ros…" Robb said. They stood in the doorway together awkwardly.

Roslin looked from side to side before finally giggling and saying, "May I come in?"

Robb snapped out of it and stood aside, "Of course, please, my lady."

"Don't be so formal, my love. Today is a good day." Roslin walked in and Robb shut the door, still determined to go to the godswood.

"I'm not sure about that. We're most likely going to lose everything today."

"Not everything. They can't take this away," Roslin held her belly.

Robb looked, "What can't they take?"

"I just saw the maester, Robb. He confirmed it. I'm with child!"

Robb just stared. He didn't know what to say or how to respond. Shouldn't he shout for joy? Shouldn't he praise his wife? What did his father say when he heard Lady Catelyn was pregnant with him?

"Well say something!" Roslin said, stepping towards him.

"That makes me very happy, Roslin…"

"Are you all right, Robb?"

"I'm sorry, my lady. I have a lot on my mind."

"Of course. It was wrong of me to bring this matter up at a time like this. I had nine months to tell you." She walked up to him and kissed his neck. Roslin stepped back and then said, "Go pray. Let your father know his namesake is on the way. King or Lord, it makes no difference to me."

"How do you know it's going to be a boy?" he asked as she started to walk toward the table for a plate of bread and cheese.

As she cut herself a slice of bread, Roslin said matter-of-factly, "A woman knows these things, Robb Stark."

He turned, opened the door, and went to the godswood once more. There were some men there praying as well, though not in the same fashion as Robb and his worship of the Old Gods. He saw the white bend of Bonifer Hasty lighting a candle for the maiden. There were septas and septons praying that the gods grant them the right king. As Robb approached the faceless oak tree, he noticed his uncle Edmure lighting a candle for the warrior. Robb approached but didn't want to interrupt. Luckily, Edmure stood and saw Robb. He walked over and said, "You've heard the news?"

"Renly?"

"Yes. A shame."

"You still need to vote for him."

Edmure looked at Robb like he was insane, "We're voting for you… King of the Trident."

"We have to be honest, uncle, I cannot win this. I am not a politician. Littlefinger will win if we don't support Renly. Lords are going to leave him left and right, but stay the course."

Edmure looked disappointed, "We fought the good fight…"

"It's not over yet, uncle. I wouldn't sheath my sword either." Robb walked to the oak tree and put his hand up against it. He tried praying to the Old Gods to lead him to the right path. He tried begging them to not let a man as ambitious and selfish as Petyr Baelish ascend to the Iron Throne. From the stories he heard, Petyr Baelish sounded like a nightmare in human form. The love child of Lann the Clever and Aegon the Conquerer.

What use was praying to this stupid oak? It had no eyes. How was it supposed to see the pain in him? Roslin was having a child. Robb was going to be a father. He would have a son named Eddard. They would go to Winterfell. They would raise their family. He and Arianne…

Roslin.

Why did it always come back to her? Why couldn't Robb just follow his honor and rule nobly? Is this what Lord Eddard felt? Did he meet a woman that invaded his thoughts? Is that how his brother was born?

He felt a hand on his shoulder blade, "King in the North."

He turned.

It was her.

"Just Robb, if you please, Princess of Dorne."

"Only if you'll call me Arianne."

"All right." They stood in silence beneath the oak tree pretending to be a god, "It would seem our efforts are about to collapse."

"I suppose." Arianne said, "It just doesn't make any sense to me."

"What doesn't?"

"I spent the night conferring with people, trying to figure out why people distrust Littlefinger. Apparently, the Imp has found layers upon layers of corruption. Half the city is employed by Lord Baelish. He's promised the Lords of the Vale each an Iron Island and he's promised the Lordship of the Isles to Ser Creighton Redfort. The rest of the Lords will each be given command over the invasion force. Apparently he converted them to his plans when they marched to the Eyrie after your aunt's wedding, to protest Littlefinger's rise to Lord Regent."

"It's not hard to guess what he promised the Brackens."

"He's going to win the Florents as well."

Robb was silent, "They're firmly for Stannis."

"Ser Axell met with Lord Baelish last night."

"That doesn't mean anything…"

"It means he's going to award them Wardenship of the South and name them Lords Paramount of the Reach."

"Even so, the Tyrells will never let them."

"I don't have your faith Robb."

Robb didn't have that faith either. If Littlefinger could manage to get the Lords of the Vale to follow him, he had no doubt that the Florents could join him… especially if both Baratheon brothers looked like sinking ships.

"Arianne, it must be Renly."

Arianne looked at him with horror, "The Dornishmen see him as no better than a Reachlord. He's married to Highgarden and has promised to name Reachlords to all the Small Council positions."

"I know…" Robb muttered.

"Dorne will never vote for Renly."

"No."

"It must be you. Dorne _will_ vote for you."

"Well I won't."

She reeled back and looked at him with horror, "What are you saying?"

"I am going to cast Winterfell's vote for Stannis and ask the Lords of Westeros to let honor rule the Realm. Not their Gods. Not the purse. And not their blood. Honor. A man must sit the Iron Throne who can uphold the laws, who can understand what the people need. Not what they want to hear."

Arianne cupped his cheek softly. Her hand felt like Qartheen silk, but it stung like a hornet, "You are only describing yourself, Robb. Our King in the North."

"Yes. It's how I would ideally rule. I don't presume to be up to the task. Tell your Dornishmen the same thing. After today, I am no King."


	32. Arianne IV

**Arianne**

Arianne left the Red Keep. She wouldn't have Robb Stark for her King.

She wandered through the streets of King's Landing knowing she was just going to the inn so she could return to the castle with her uncle and the Queen. Still, she needed the fresh air. The godswood was too stifling. Too holy. Arianne felt the Father's eyes watching her every move. When she touched Robb's cheek, he flinched. She felt the Father's eyes on her, judging her.

The street reminded her of Sunspear. There were dirty children speaking strange tongues running and playing amidst boys selling fresh pies and girls selling their thighs. A lot of the poor in this city were Norvoshi. Arianne found she had an unnecessarily soft spot for the Norvoshi. Perhaps it was remembering the lullabies her mother would sing when she was a baby. Or maybe it had to do with Areo's gruff accent Arianne would have to go to Norvos one day.

She saw an old woman with gray hair turning white and a shawl over her head. She had the burned copper skin of Norvos that was slowly turning to leather with the crawling passage of time. She had a small table in front of her with a candle, a stick of burning incense, and a pair of black bags. She looked up at Arianne and asked in the most careful Common Tongue she could manage, "Future for penny."

Arianne looked down the road to the street where her inn was. She looked back to the Red Keep where Robb Stark was preparing to give up his crown. She looked down at the old woman, reached into her purse and handed her a copper penny. She knelt down on the other side of the old woman's table.

The woman took the penny and it disappeared in her sleeves, "What want know?"

Arianne only had one question on her mind. She looked at the smoking stick of incense and asked, "Will I," how was she supposed to word this… "be with the Young Wolf?"

The woman produced a bowl from underneath the tiny table and rang it with a wooden pommel. It sounded with a _thoom_. The ancient woman put down the singing bowl and picked up the black bag. She opened it and turned the bag toward Arianne.

"Cast." She said.

Arianne put her fingers into the bag and pulled out a black, round gem. She turned the rock in her fingers over and over again. Inside the gem were three broken lines stacked on top of each other. She handed the gem to the woman who then said, "K'un. Earth Mother." She told Arianne to cast from the black bag one more time. Arianne pulled out another gem. This one was white as bone and when she gazed into it, it had three unbroken lines stacked on top of each other. She handed it to the old woman who looked at it and then said, "Chien. Heaven Father." She then pulled out a shard of graphite and paper and drew three broken lines sitting beneath three unbroken lines.

She picked up the other bag and said, "Cast number." Arianne reached inside the bag and found six tiny wooden tablets. The tab she pulled out had two lines on it. The woman held up two fingers and drew an X in the space between the second broken line from the bottom.

She handed the drawing to Arianne who stared at the enigma and tried to obtain meaning from it, "What does it say?"

"The gem stone augur draws symbol twelve: Standstill. Evil people do not further the perseverance of the superior man. The great departs the small approaches. A six in the second place means they bear and endure: this means good fortune for inferior people. The standstill serves to help the great man to attain success. Then symbol six: Conflict. You are sincere and are being obstructed. A cautious halt halfway through brings good fortune. Going through to the end brings misfortune. It furthers one to see the great man. It does _not _further one to cross the great water."

Arianne repeated it to herself: _Standstill changes to Conflict. Good fortune for inferior people. I am sincere and being obstructed. A cautious halt halfway through brings good fortune. Going through to the end brings misfortune. It furthers one to see the great man. It does not further one to cross the great water…_

She reached into her purse and drew out a dragon for the old woman. She stared at the coin in disbelief and looked up at Arianne's eyes filled with pain. Arianne folded her prophecy and tucked it away in her bosom.

The Princess walked down the street, turned, passed the Dornish guards, and entered the inn. Inside, Princess Myrcella was wearing Baratheon yellow and black. She had dresses of Martell orange and Lannister red, but there was no need to associate those Houses or colors with the little Queen.

Ser Arys was still wearing his helm. Arianne saw him standing behind the Princess next to Drey and asked, "Where is my uncle?"

Before Ser Arys made things awkward, Drey answered, "In his room. Preparing."

_Preparing for what, dare I ask?_

Arianne climbed the stairs and knocked lightly on his door. Oberyn shouted for her to come inside. She pushed open the door and saw a young Dornish boy strapping Oberyn's armor on. He was staring out the eastern window, "See that Princess?" the Red Viper said, "The sun rises over the Red Keep. It's an omen."

"No uncle, it's just an absence of clouds. From this window, the sun always rises over the Red Keep."

"Perhaps," he said, "perhaps. Today we end Littlefinger's fantasy. Tomorrow we crown the Young Wolf."

"Robb Stark," _Standstill changes to Conflict_, "will not be king. He's going to swing his support to the Baratheons."

"No matter." Oberyn said, "Littlefinger's game ends today. When he's gone, the Reachlords won't return to Renly. The Stormlords will look for an alternative to Stannis. Robb may become King before we even get the chance to swing Myrcella's support to him… The sun rises over the Red Keep. The Wolf follows." He held the spear out in front of him and lined the shaft with the Tower of the Hand and the morning sun.

"Uncle, I don't like this game."

"What's not to like?"

Arianne remembered the oracle, _a cautious halt halfway through brings good fortune. Going through to the end brings misfortune, _"Let's return to Dorne. Crown Myrcella in Sunspear and wait for the swords to come. There won't be another Young Dragon. Dorne can be independent once again. This… this is not a war we can win."

"Arianne, this isn't like you. Are you unwell?"

"I have a bad feeling about this."

"Anticipation. It's the feeling you get just prior to a battle. Don't concern yourself. After two or three of them, you get used to it."


	33. Robb IX

**Robb**

King Renly was shaking. He looked like he'd aged twenty years in one night. He hadn't groomed his beard. Instead it was growing wild. Robb wondered if it was a matter of Renly knowing he'd just lost most of his supporters, or if he was shaking too much to hold the blade.

Stannis, on the other hand, looked relieved. Robb wasn't aware he could ever look _happy. _In a way. He sat back in his chair and looked around at the Lords of Westeros. Many of whom were looking and pointing at Stannis as they conversed with other Lords. Others were smiling whenever they looked at Renly. Their jests made Renly shake more violently. The Lords of the North would never vote for such a man. He appeared too weak. And that was all that mattered to men who had the same blood as the wildlings Beyond the Wall.

The maester stood before the Kingsmoot and announced that they were ready to begin. He turned to the four Kings and the Queen and asked, "If our aspirant monarchs have anything they'd like to say to begin?"

Robb stood.

"Very well, then." He turned back to the Lords and announced, "Robb, the first of his name, of House Stark. King in the North and King of the Trident."

Robb stepped forward and wished he'd wrote something down. It might make this easier,

**My Lords of Westeros. When I departed Winterfell, I had intentions to free my father, Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, from the clutches of a child King and his mother. We were too slow. When it became apparent that southron rule would do nothing but defeat the North, I was declared King in the North… the first to hold that title since Torrhen, the King Who Knelt. We assumed that we could simply free ourselves by unkneeling as easily as we enslaved ourselves by kneeling. We were wrong. The world has changed. Kings are not chosen by succession, or by divine providence, but by election. The First Men, however, follow only the strong. And here, in this place, in the South, strength has a different meaning entirely. My Lords, I do not belong here. I do not belong on the Iron Throne. I don't belong anywhere south of the Neck. With the Small Council's leave, I will abandon my candidacy for Aegon's seat and return to Winterfell, to rule as Lord there.**

The murmur amongst the Lords was deafening. Robb turned and saw his mother look incredulous. King Renly stopped shaking a moment to listen to what Robb had to say… to see who he would support. Stannis seemed proud, probably just a matter of one less man to aspire to his Throne. Myrcella betrayed nothing, for the most part unawares of exactly what was happening. And Petyr Baelish… looked far too pleased.

The maester stepped forward as Robb began to descend the steps to sit with the Greatjon Umber and the rest of his bannermen, "My Lord, in the abstention of your claim to the Iron Throne, who does Winterfell cast its vote for?"

Robb forgot about that part. He just wanted to leave this place, "Winterfell has built its foundation on honor. The Kings in the North of old and their descendants, the Lords Paramount of the North have all ruled with the constant warning that _Winter is Coming_. And in the wake of that winter, treachery and cowardice have no place. I cannot imagine the Iron Throne as a place less fit for a man of honor as the Chair in Winterfell. My Lords, seat a man with some semblance of honor. One who's ambition is limited. One who's life is dedicated to fairness and owes no precedence to his purse. Winterfell casts its vote for King Stannis."

Robb descended the stairs and sat down at the head of the table of the Northlords.

Edmure Tully stood and demanded a vote before the other Lords could initiate a debate between the candidates. The maester held his hands up for silence and announced, "Are there any that abstain from Winterfell's vote?"

Most did. Only Last Hearth, Bear Island, and the Stoneborn (though Robb knew it had nothing to do with him) cast their lot with Stannis. The others were divided between Renly and Littlefinger. Robb was unnerved when he saw the Dreadfort cast its lot with Littlefinger. The Riverlands went more for Petyr Baelish than the North, and only a few lords cast themselves for Renly. Robb was shocked to hear both Raventree Hall and Stone Hedge vote for Petyr Baelish, almost one after the other.

The entire Vale, including all those rocks in the Bite that were divided between Renly and Robb yesterday, went entirely for Petyr. Noone dissented when Lysa Arryn held up her declaration and said that the Eyrie cast its lot for "my husband, the King in the Vale, Petyr of the House Baelish."

The West's vote remained similar, with Baelish gaining a slight edge, and the Crag voting for Renly in Robb's abstention.

The Crownlands went half for Petyr, half for Stannis. The Reach half for Renly, half for Petyr. Just as Arianne suspected, Brightwater Keep voted for Baelish. The Stormlands were divided between Stannis and Renly. And Dorne stuck by Myrcella.

In less than three days, Petyr Baelish went from the unknown, forgotten Lord of Baelish Keep, to the most powerful candidate to the Iron Throne.

**P. Baelish: 80 (40%)**  
**R. Baratheon: 57 (28%)**  
**S. Baratheon: 33 (17%)**  
**M. Baratheon: 30 (15%)**

Petyr Baelish's supporters began cheering for the King in the Vale to both Renly and Stannis' displeasure. He stood and held up a hand, "For this victory, I wish to celebrate with a feast! My Lords of Westeros join me for lunch!"

As the preparations were made, Robb had no intention to join Petyr Baelish for his dinner or his bribes. He told Dacey to prepare their things to leave for Winterfell. They were leaving tonight.


	34. Davos III

**Davos**

"Your Grace," Davos said, "Entreat with Renly. Promise to make him your Hand. Then offer positions to Dorne and the Imp. Together, you'll make up 60% of the vote. Gravity will take care of the final six." Stannis was preparing for the lunch. He would do nothing other than watch. _Littlefinger's gifts are poison_, Stannis said, _but I will not signal to the Lords of Westeros that I did not watch them join a usurper for a feast_.

"We've tried this your way, Ser Davos." Stannis began, "The Young Wolf had less influence than we thought."

The King seemed white. He was sipping at the waterskin carefully. The red woman appeared as if out of nowhere. She was fond of doing that. Lady Melisandre carried a bronze plate with three leeches filled to burst with blood. That was when Davos realized the blood was Stannis' own. She leeched him… to what purpose?

Stannis picked up a leech and threw it in the fire, "The usurper, Renly Baratheon."

He picked up another as Davos backed away, "The usurper, Myrcella Barathon." _Myrcella is just a girl… if you must curse someone, make it the Red Viper, or the Imp. She is just a girl… _

He picked up the last leech and tossed it in with vitriol marking the air the leech passed through. They started to burst in the flames, with the sounds of arrows leaving a bow string, "The usurper, Petyr Baelish."

The memory of his King using blood magic haunted Ser Davos from the moment he entered the great hall. The High Septon has since absolved himself of the Kingsmoot. He wanted nothing to do with Renly's abomination or the pagan deities of Stannis or Robb. Ser Davos figured he should go around to the Lords of Westeros and ask what made Petyr Baelish so attractive to them as a King. Davos already suspected many of the Lords had religious reasons. Petyr Baelish was the only aspirant monarch who worshipped the gods and was not born of incest.

Davos sat with the other Stormlords that began to feast to their heart's content. Many of them were now declaring for Stannis. Ser Davos didn't need to ask why: the recent discovery of Renly's "piety" was enough to turn the martial Stormlords against him. Davos heard a pair of Lords in conversation, "Why should we care where Renly's sheaths his sword? I suppose it really only matters if it's Ser Loras sheaths his sword instead." The Stormlords roared with laughter.

Like his King, Ser Davos was careful not to eat anything. _Littlefinger's gifts are poisoned_. The Stormlands wanted nothing to do with Lord Baelish. They'd even have Stannis before they had him… with a few exceptions.

Davos wandered to Ser Bonifer Hasty. Bonifer the Good responded as Davos the Onion Knight expected: "Lord Baelish is the only one here that worships the Gods. He worships the true gods. Not like your King, Knight of Onions."

"I worship the true gods, Ser Bonifer," Davos defended, "I have never heard it said that the King is not allowed to follow his own convictions."

"So it would seem, Onion Knight. So it would seem." Ser Bonifer dug into a leg of sturgeon.

Ser Davos was about to round the Stormlords' table when a voice caught him from behind.

"Ser Davos Seaworth, surveying my constituents, are you?"

Davos turned around and saw Petyr Baelish standing behind him. He wasn't a particularly tall man. He had a pointed beard and salt-and-pepper hair. He had a smile that betrayed some cruel joke Davos worried was currently being played on him. The Onion Knight kept his cool and tried to respond calmly, "Simply finding out your strategy, Lord Baelish. I owe loyalty to my King."

"I admire your loyalty, Ser Davos. It's hard to come by in these trying times. Trust me. I know." Ser Davos looked around at all of the men eating Littlefinger's food. They must have been easy to buy, weren't they? Was it that easy? Did Littlefinger toss them a small pot of gold and say, "Cast you vote here"?

"It seems curious to me, Lord Littlefinger, that you presume to balance the Realm's finances, trim the debt, and still plan on feasting lavishly."

"I promised to trim the Realm's budget, didn't I, Ser Onion Knight? I spent none of the Realm's money to feast the Lords of Westeros. You can eat at my expense."

"And how is it, the Lord of Baelish Keep can afford to feed the Lords of Westeros?"

Baelish smiled fully this time, "Ser Davos, is that doubt in your voice?"

"It is." He said, "As Master of Coin you had access to so many finances. Is the Realm in debt partly because you had to fund money into your own purse? Did you just funnel Tywin Lannister's money to Baelish Keep and write it off as crown expenses?"

"Ser Davos, you wound me."

"I hope to do much more than wound you, ser."

"Tell me something," the Mockingbird began, "you're the Lord of Cape Wrath now, but where are you from?"

Ser Davos narrowed his eyes, "Flea Bottom."

"And what did your parents do?"

"My father was a crabber."

Petyr Baelish smiled and chuckled, "Ser Onions, my great-grandfather was a Braavosi immigrant. A sellsword in the service of House Corbray. His son was knighted for his services and given a spit of land: the smallest of the Fingers. My father was a simple Lord. He was the lowest of the lowest Lords, but he was a Lord nonetheless and a landed Lord at that. Now. When you see that history, does it reflect the status or the power of the man you see before you? Before me, that Throne over there was only held for the Targaryens, the Baratheons, and the Lannisters. Even the Florents or the Tullys could aspire to it. But you and I… we are the same. My victory, is yours."

Ser Davos glared at the short man before him, "We are not the same." He walked away from Littlefinger and looked for a place to sit. At the far end of the Reachlord's table was the red woman. She was leaning and whispering into the ears of Ser Axell Florent. Ser Axell was laughing; he had an evil smile on his face and seemed all too proud of himself. Several times in his stay on Dragonstone, Ser Davos had to talk the King down from his – admittedly – enhanced sense of justice. But the Florents were a traitorous lot. Ser Davos wouldn't mind seeing something done with them.

Behind the red woman on the far side of the room, Davos saw the unmistakable shape and color of Oberyn Martell. He was holding a spear, point down to the ground, and paced slowly from table to table. His hair, black with silver streaks, cascaded down his hair, poorly hiding the unmistakably murderous look in his eyes.

Davos followed those eyes and they rested on Petyr Baelish, who stood on the directly opposite side of the room. Davos wondered if he meant to spear him through, right here in front of all the Lords of Westeros. The Red Viper was rumored to be vicious, but that was clearly… insane.

He chose to continue his fact-finding mission and found a seat next to Lord Tytos Blackwood. Davos still insisted on drinking from his own skin and not touching any of the food, but he filled the plate before him so as to appear like he was enjoying himself.

"Lord Tytos, you switched over to Lord Baelish rather easily."

"Apologies Ser Onions, our business is our business."

"I always assumed House Blackwood was a House of honor. Kings since before the Andals, still clinging to the gods of your ancestors…"

"Is there any dishonor in choosing a King of our own? We would have seated Robb Stark, but he's chosen otherwise." Lord Tytos wiped a dribble of wine from his cheek.

"Lord Baelish offered you Battle Valley, didn't he?"

Lord Tytos looked offended as he chewed his leg of lamb. After he swallowed, he relented, "Of course he did. Why else would we choose the same side with those blood thirsty Blackwoods."

"Of course…" Davos stood and went right for Lord Jonos Bracken. He sat down next to the man and performed the same pretense at eating. He engaged Lord Bracken, "King Stannis was hoping for your vote, my lord. He was wondering why you switched over to Lord Baelish."

"If the King wants to entreat with my House himself, he can do so."

"Apologies Lord Jonos, the King sent me himself. He'd be willing to entreat with you if you're open to casting your lot with him."

"What might the King in the Narrow Sea offer House Bracken?"

"The King is just. He offers rewards when they're deserved and punishment likewise." Davos held up his shortened hand, "Trust me, I know."

"Yes, we've all heard the tales of the Onion Knight." Lord Jonos tried to sound as terminal as he could.

"You do know, Lord Jonos, that Petyr Baelish has offered House Blackwood the Battle Valley in exchange for their vote."

Lord Jonos didn't get angry or shocked. He didn't even flinch. He simply stopped between sips of wine and said, "Yes, I do know."

"You know?"

"Yes, of course. It wasn't hard to figure out. Those Blackwoods hold themselves up as honorable but they can be sold for a fistful of coppers if you shake hard enough."

"I… I'm confused, Lord Jonos, why would you side with Lord Baelish if you know he's going to give the contested lands to the Blackwoods?"

"Because he's giving us something else… something better."

Davos didn't ask, he just stared at Lord Jonos. He finally relented, feeling that straight talk was the only thing that was going to get Davos to leave, "Ser Onions, he offered us Raventree Hall. Now please, I'm trying to enjoy my lunch."


	35. Tyrion VIII

**Tyrion**

The Red Viper wandered between the tables with his spear. No one seemed to notice him. They were far too content to eat Littlefinger's food and drink his wine. Tyrion tried looking at the Lords of Westeros and wonder which table might be safe to eat from. Littlefinger was married to Lysa Arryn… and the Vale voted as a bloc for him. Perhaps that was safe. Tyrion then realized it was ridiculous to assume a man wouldn't poison his wife. In most cases, that was the first person a man would poison.

And behind those Lords who were muttering about how rich and kind and generous and beneficial to the Realm King Littlefinger would be, was the Red Viper with murder in his eyes. He carried that Dornish spear but no one seemed to bother noticing. Dorne was always the far end of the Realm that men preferred to forget about… but Tyrion had a hankering they were about to feel the Viper's sting before the day was over.

The lunch was winding down. Littlefinger sat next to Tyrion by the Small Council table and struck up a conversation, "I was hoping we might have a vote once the Lords of Westeros finishes eating."

"You like your rolls all buttered up before you eat them, don't you?"

"Well seven is a good omen, don't you think Lord Tyrion?"

"Indeed. I'm sure the Faith would be very pleased to see you on the Throne. You're the last man standing who seems pious enough and isn't facing accusations of incest."

"So it would seem. Speaking of incest, in the absence of his parents, young Tommen is your ward, is he not?"

Tyrion didn't want to mention that a parent was still alive. Littlefinger must've known – the whole Realm knows – but there was no use bringing it out in the open, "He is. I plan on taking him back to Casterly Rock after this is all done."

"I was wondering if you might leave the little Prince here."

"Unless Myrcella wins," Tyrion said, "he won't be a Prince much longer. What would you want with my nephew any way?"

"Well you see, I need successors…"

"And you want Tommen to succeed you? You're a married man. Or is your finger too little?"

Littlefinger forced an easy laugh underlined with sarcasm "That's hilarious, can you believe I've _never _heard that one before? Never, in my life. No, but I was planning on having _lots _of successors. But in the absence of having those successors at the present moment, I was hoping to have Tommen, and marry him to my daughter."

"You have a daughter?" this came as new to Tyrion.

"A natural one, yes. Her name is Alayne. If the Lord of Casterly Rock is open to it, we can arrange a marriage when Tommen comes of age and all that."

_And you want to keep him here to make sure he's more Baelish than Lannister, is that it? I have news for you Littlefinger, he's not just half, but all Lannister_, "I'll consider it…"

"What's not to consider? Your nephew may be a King."

"Perhaps, Lord Baelish. You have to win first."

"I don't foresee any difficulty." Littlefinger stood and walked over to his proto-Throne. He sat there in between the shaking Renly and the rather regal Myrcella in her Baratheon colors. Tyrion considered the irony that Tommen might become King after all that business with Joffrey and the incest.

Lady Catelyn arrived, content to luncheon with her son and good-daughter. She had a smile on her face, which Tyrion thought was a rare sight, "Lady Stark. How did you enjoy your lunch?"

"It was excellent, Lord Tyrion. I'm going to be a grandmother," she smiled proudly.

"Roslin is pregnant?"

"She is indeed."

Tyrion considered that for a moment and put a book mark in it to consider it more later, "Please give the Lord and Lady of Winterfell my congratulations when you see them next."

"I will." Tyrion wasn't sure if she was just being polite or if she actually would.

A combination of men with Mockingbird sigils and men wearing the – now erroneous – coat of arms tripled into the direwolf over a pair of stags – cleared sturgeon skeletons, empty bottles of wine, and remnants of potatoes, leeks and parsnips. Men resembling Wyman Manderly were still using the bread to soak up leftovers on their plates.

After everyone was feeling good and stuffed (Tyrion decided to eat, realizing that if a vast majority of the Lords of Westeros were suddenly dead at Littlefinger's dinner, it might persuade 100% of their heirs to vote against him and thus, not good for Littlefinger's game plan) Catelyn Stark stood and told the maester to see if anyone had anything to say.

The maester stood in front of the Kings and turned to the Lords of Westeros, "If any man has an issue or a question for these Kings, speak now."

The chamber echoed with the butt of a spear crashing against the stone floor like a thunder clap. The Red Viper stood between the maester and the Dornish seats and suddenly, all eyes were on Oberyn Martell and his menacing spear.

"I have a question for Petyr Baelish."

The maester was about to say something formal, but Petyr Baelish just answered, "What is it, Prince Viper?"

"Where were you when this city was under siege?"

"I was in the Vale. Marshaling the Lords of the Vale under Lord Robert."

"And before that?"

"Before that I was on a ship to the Vale."

"Were you not the Master of Coin?" The Red Viper declared, "Did you not serve on Prince Joffrey's – the usurper's – Small Council? Or from the moment King Robert died, were you on a very slow ship to the Vale? Arriving only after the War was fought and won?"

"If I recall correctly… I do think I retained my position under the late Joffrey's brief reign."

"So you admit to serving under the Lannister usurper?"

"If Prince Joffrey was a usurper, what does that make you, Prince of Poison? You seek to seat that same King's sister."

Tyrion thought the Red Viper was suddenly caught in a trap. In a war of words, Littlefinger was obviously the man most prepared in this situation. But Tyrion wasn't sure how long that spear would stay in Oberyn's hand. He already knew he would just have to knick Littlefinger with it and he was a dead man.

"I seek to preserve the laws and security of Dorne. What do you seek, Baelish? Your own ambition. Your own power. You seek to satisfy your own purse, your own itch for a crown. But what you don't want to admit, what you sugar coat, is that you are a traitor to the Realm. You polish your words, you hide behind technicalities, but you have betrayed the Realm your claim to serve and on the corpses of those you once called allies, plan to crown yourself."

"Prince Oberyn, if you are accusing me of a crime…"

"I am."

"Then I demand a trial. Don't I have that right? An opportunity to be proven innocent in the sight of gods and men."

"Fine, then let us present the facts."

"Oh no need for facts. Trials can be so lengthy. Truth be told, I prefer the justice of the gods. A Trial by Battles."

The Red Viper's murderous stare turned into an almost erotic pleasure. Tyrion wasn't sure if Oberyn Martell was about to just leap forward and stab Petyr Baelish in the fastest Trial by Battle in history, "It would be my honor, Lord Baelish."

"Well, I can name my champion?"

There was nothing that could take Oberyn down from the high of sticking his spear into someone. He simply asked from behind that deadly smile, "Who?"

Littlefinger stood, "Ser Lyn Corbray."


	36. Jaime IV

**Jaime**

Ser Jaime led a tiny cavalry force up the River Road. Ser Kevan's scouts had been tracking Lefford movements all this time. Jaime knew they'd reach the assigned point by dusk. That was perfect.

Just over half the distance to Sarsfield, Jaime and his collection of sworn swords saw the Lefford force. They were waving the Golden Tooth sigil with the smiling sun on the upper corner. From here, Jaime could see three trebuchets, a dozen catapults, and six scorpions. He could only imagine what force Lord Serrett was bringing from the south and he hoped Ser Devan was doing his best to destroy them.

It seemed like the Alliance of Gold and Silver had no intention of capturing the Rock. They'd rather leave it in pieces and award the ruins to the first House that needed a reward for their service. If Ser Devan was able to burn the siege equipment the Serretts were carrying from Silverhill, then there was no reason they might survive.

Ser Jaime held up his sword in his golden hand, "This is it!" he said, "We make it back to the Rock in one piece, and we'll feast a gilded sturgeon each!"

The sweet sound of steel being drawn was music to his ears. Ser Jaime led the charge down the Road as the Lefford army suddenly realized they were going to have to play the defensive.

As expected, the Lefford cavalry was able to match the Lannister force two-to-one. Jaime felt they were lucky enough. He told the men to make the Leffords angry, but not to worry too much about killing them. There was already a weapon that will kill them available.

When the two met, Jaime led his forces to parry the Lefford blows and pass straight through them. In his recent reading, Jaime found that Westerosi knights were trained to ride _past _their opponents as in a jousting competition. Dothraki screamers, on the other hand, were taught to ride down their opponent and crush him underfoot if he didn't move out of the way. Jaime realized that might be useful in a battle, but he was all too happy to have Westerosi knights that knew how to ride past their opponent.

The failure to engage confused the Lefford cavalry. They tried to immediately turn and pursue Jaime and his knights as they approached the greater part of the Lefford army. Lefford archers immediately gathered to knock their arrows. When they volleyed into the oncoming Lannister charge, the Lefford cavalry had finally caught up. Jaime turned and saw some of his knights fall, but the Lefford force panicked and forgot that the greater part of the approaching cavalry battle was made up of their own men.

When Jaime's force was finally close enough, they clashed with any swordsmen they saw, forcing the Lefford cavalry to pursue them on the outskirts of the army. Jaime wondered why he hadn't made them carry torches like Ser Daven's force, they could maybe torch a trebuchet or two.

But that wasn't their intention. Jaime cut a few necks and stabbed a few knights. He wasn't sure how many men he killed, but he wasn't trying to count. He pulled up the horn with his shield hand and let the sound fly. A pair of arrows flew on either side of his head, and Jaime turned to ride down the River Road once more. His knights followed in a pitched retreat back to the Rock. The Lefford cavalry turned in hot pursuit.

Jaime remembered reading how the Dothraki had a word for riding a horse so hard, it killed the beast. He wouldn't even try to pronounce it. All he really learned from that book was that if he won the war, he needed to raise an army on the Dothraki model.

A few of his horsemen turned in their saddles and loosed arrows into the Lefford cavalry, taunting them into continuous pursuit. A few of them landed. But the majority had their intended effect: to piss off the knights of Golden Tooth. They continued their pursuit, trying as hard as they could to catch up.

Jaime had no intention of killing his horse. He'd still need it before the siege was over. But they were almost at the assigned point on the River Road. They were so close… after they passed it, they could let the horses have a breather. But not before. _Not _before.

The sky turned from orange to purple and the stars were coming out in droves. Jaime looked on either side of the road for the markers that indicated the location. There should be a single torch lit on either side. There should be…

Ah! There! Jaime blew the horn one more time and his men kicked their horses for one last burst of energy. They rode harder and faster than they ever had because no one wanted to be caught past that line…

Jaime blew the horn a second time, and when they approached the line, he sounded it a third time. Just as the Lannister cavalry passed the line a metallic roar was heard and dirt and iron flew into the air as a boom chain, a tenth of the size of any used for ships in a harbor erupted out of the dirt via a pair of mechanism resembling scorpions. The chain, and the ground they stood on was soaked in wildfire, which ignited from those same mechanisms on either side of the Road. Three more chains exploded out of the soil and were lit. The Lefford cavalry was suddenly trapped in a box made of iron and wildfire. The Lannister cavalry stopped and watched the green flames devour the Lefford men.

The wildfire was so bright, Jaime had to turn away and let them adjust before he could stare right into it. Even then, the sound of screaming men burning alive wasn't a particularly pretty sound to hear. The wildfire was bright enough to be seen for miles, especially on such a high hill. The larger portion of the Lefford army would surely be able to see it from such a distance. They would come upon the crest of this hill by morning and see that the road to Casterly Rock was paved with dead men and wildfire.

Ser Jaime led his forces back to the Rock. He noticed a few of them back at the Rock that he didn't recognize. He interviewed the men who came up with fabricated stories about showing up to Casterly Rock's call late for the battle. Jaime realized, without questioning it that they were Lefford knights who saw the chain and the wildfire, and instead of pursuing a losing army, chose the side of the Lannisters.

Jaime smiled and let them continue to pretend they were on the winning side all along. He liked where this was going and went to check the defenses.

Ser Daven returned with around two-thirds of his men. Most were wounded in some way. Even his cousin had an arrow sticking out of his thigh. Jaime called the healers over who went right to work removing the arrow and applying healing herbs

"How was it?" Jaime asked.

"Oh cos," Daven said behind a gurgle of wine, "It was fantastic. The singers will write songs for _years_." He brushed hair out of his face as it started to matt against his forehead from the night's sweat.

"What's the damage?"

"Us or them?"

Jaime wasn't sure which side of the news he preferred, "Them."

"We torched four trebuchets, a catapult, and eight scorpions. We headed right for them before trying to kill the men. Let me tell you Ser Goldenhand, we torched every last machine. They're going to besiege the rock with swords and spears. How's that for a victory?"


	37. Arianne V

**Arianne**

For the second time in a week, the entire city flocked to the Dragonpit. It was the only ground in the Crownlands that could hold the Lords of Westeros and all the smallfolk that gathered to watch. Prince Oberyn and his retinue stood on one side of the pit. He was already fully armored with his doublet, round shield, and spear. Arianne looked close enough at the spearhead to see a liquid shine in the light.

She decided not to question what it might be.

"Uncle," she said, "you cannot do this. Name a champion of your own."

"I'm sorry, dear Princess, is there another man you trust with this matter?"

Arianne racked her brain, but she had to confess that she herself knew no better fighter than the Red Viper. Had she been born a boy, or spent more time with cousins, she might be better versed in the arts or war or the names of warriors. But only Ser Lyn had a reputation in Martell lore.

"Prince Oberyn…" Robb Stark rushed to the edge of the pit, "Let me fight in your place."

_Robb, no!_

"So eager for death, Robb Stark? Losing your crown voluntarily is not dishonorable. But I wished you stayed in the game a bit longer. Tell me, what was it that convinced you to cast your lot for Stannis?"

Robb blushed, "I learned that my father supported his claim. I couldn't tarnish his memory, continuing to claim a crown for myself when he supported Stannis' claim…"

"Lord Eddard is _dead_, Young Wolf. Remember that. Your honor is your own. And only you and Stannis knew about Lord Eddard's claim. What dishonor was there in it? With Renly's discovery, Dorne would declare for you. And the West, and the Reachlords and Stormlords seeking an alternative to the Baratheons. After this, you'll be King in the North once again."

Arianne looked over at Robb who's eyes turned to his feet, "I have no desire to sit the Iron Throne, Prince Oberyn. This is not a fight you should risk. Dorne had the mountains, the North has the Neck. We can declare our own independence if need be…"

"Didn't you make a promise, Robb Stark? That you would kneel to whatever King sat the Iron Throne once the Kingsmoot ends? I believe it was the first thing I learned when the Kingsmoot was announced."

Arianne remembered hearing about it too. The thought of Stannis bowing to Renly was just hilarious. She knew it would never happen, but Robb Stark was honor bound to kneel to the victor, even Petyr Baelish.

"Ser Lyn Corbray is not a man to be toyed with. He's treacherous." Robb declared.

"Do you think I wasn't aware of that simple fact? Let me tell you a brief story, Lord of Winterfell. When our Houses fought against each other in Robert's War, my uncle Ser Lewyn Martell was a knight of the Kingsguard. He belonged to an era when the Kingsguard was formed of the best knights in the Realm, so what does that tell you of my uncle's prowess? Not this day and age when the Kingsguard is given for political pats on the back. With his spear and white shield, Ser Lewyn led ten thousand Dornishmen against Robert's left flank. The left flank was led by Lord Corbray. You may remember the minor detail of the Corbrays having declared themselves to be Targaryen allies. After Jon Arryn defeated the Royal forces at Gulltown, Ser Lyn and his father bent the knee to the Usurper and joined your father and his friend at the Trident. Ser Lewyn crushed Robert's left flank, but not in time. Lord Corbray fell and dropped his sword. Ser Lyn picked it up and charged into the breach where he found my uncle with a half dozen arrows piercing him. And in that condition, Ser Lyn killed my uncle and Dorne ended up on the losing side of the war."

The War of the Usurper haunted Martell lore. Arianne remembered the tale of her great-uncle well, "I'm sure you know what happened after the Trident," Oberyn said, "with Rhaegar Targaryen dead and the Royal army routed, Tywin Lannister declared for Robert and marched his army down the Goldroad and sacked King's Landing. Princess Elia and her two children were inside the Red Keep. But here's a part of that tale you might not know: years earlier, my sister and I sailed around the Seven Kingdoms on a matrimonial quest. Our mother hoped to marry us to Jaime and Cersei Lannister. An alliance of Dorne and the West could weaken the Reachlords and give Dorne victory in our age old conflict. But Tywin Lannister refused us. He said his daughter was reserved for Prince Rhaegar. And he offered Elia the newborn Imp, which my mother took as an insult. But I suppose momentarily, it seemed like my sister won that argument when she was chosen as the Prince's wife over Cersei Lannister."

Arianne closed her eyes when she saw the murder in her uncles, "Tywin Lannister was finally in a position to avenge Aerys' slight. He unleashed his dogs on the Red Keep. Ser Amory Lorch and Ser Gregor Clegane killed my infant nephew and niece. The Mountain raped my sister. And in the end, they slaughtered her like an animal."

"Uncle, Ser Gregor is dead…" Arianne pleaded, "This is not the time for revenge."

"Oh but it is, Arianne. Who was it that turned his back on the King? Ser Lyn Corbray is no better than the Kingslayer. No less responsible for Elia's murder than the Mountain himself. Without Ser Lyn turning his back on the vow he swore, my uncle and his army would have ended the Rebellion, my sister would still live, and so would her children. The world would be a very different place, Robb Stark," Arianne thought about how that alternate history might be looked at differently by the Starks. If Ned Stark were lucky enough to survive the battle, he would no doubt have been sent to the Wall. Robb Stark would have led a very different life, "My sister should not have suffered that fate. No one should have. And Ser Lyn betrayed every oath he ever swore and held open the door for the Abomination that Rides."

Arianne couldn't fight her uncle's logic, "Uncle, Ser Lyn defeated one of the greatest knights in the Realm. No one disputes that."

"True," Oberyn said, "but Ser Lewyn was injured. Gravely perhaps, and Ser Lyn took advantage of that wounding. I may not be a knight of the Kingsguard, but we Dornish have hot blood, and I question Ser Lyn's readiness for that." He looked behind him and saw Ser Lyn with his squire strapping on his breastplate, "It's truly a shame, Lord Stark. After all those years, separated by hundreds of leagues, Winterfell and Sunspear that is. We should have seen the Lannister grab coming a mile away, and we each had an interest in stopping it. Had we acted before Jon Arryn was murdered, or your Lord father, we could have united our Houses and attacked Tywin Lannister from two fronts. Alas, missed opportunities are just that."

Arianne turned to see Robb Stark and she blushed. It was another world, another history that she was unlucky enough not to inhabit.

"Prince Oberyn!" a man shouted. The Red Viper raised his spear to signal he was ready. The Prince's paramour Ellaria bent over the wall and kissed him.

"Watch me kill this demon," he said. He didn't have to say it at all. The entire city would be watching.

Prince Oberyn approached the center of the Dragonpit, just about where Ser Loras landed after being bunted by the Greatjon. Ser Lyn approached. They looked like gold and silver. Oberyn was dressed in armor that was shined to a yellow hue, some alloy that mixed with brass. Most Dornishmen wore armor the color of sand. Ser Lyn wore the armor of the Vale, itself a formulation of scarred pyramids and with few gaps for Oberyn to stick his spear.

A dozen trumpets sounded to call the crowd to silence. The High Septon prayed to the Father Above for justice and that the Warrior As Well would guide the righteous man's sword whose cause was just. Oberyn carried a small round Dornish shield emblazoned with the sun and spear of Martell. Ser Lyn carried a heater with three black crows carrying a blood red heart in their talons.

From their seats, Arianne and Robb heard the Red Viper call out, "Do you know who I am?"

Ser Lyn growled back, "Some dead Dornishman. Eager to see his uncle one last time."

The description angered Oberyn. He took a step forward and slammed the butt of his spear against the dirt, "My name is Oberyn Martell. A Prince of Dorne. You betrayed King Aerys, a man you swore to defend. You killed Ser Lewyn, a wounded knight you killed dishonorably. And you opened the door for Ser Gregor Clegane who raped and murdered my sister, who killed my infant niece and nephew in cold blood."

"I don't recall."

"You fought one of the greatest knights in the Realm."

"I _killed _one of the greatest knights in the Realm. So what does that make me?"

"Elia of Dorne. I will have you say her name before I shove my spear down your throat."

"Try me, snake."

The Red Viper pointed his spear and leapt forward. The spearhead crashed with Ser Lyn's shield. Corbray danced to the side and swung his sword at Oberyn's neck. The Red Viper ducked and pushed his spear up under Corbray's shield. The Knight of the Vale wasn't phased. He retreated three steps and then charged forward like a wild animal.

His sword swung as fluid as a banner and came as close to the Red Viper's neck that Arianne was sure he could feel the wind follow the blade. Twice Corbray's sword impacted Oberyn's shield and deflected like a beam of light, only for the blade to come back to his armor.

The Red Viper blocked Ser Lyn's sword with his spear and shield and brought the knight close. He roared, "I will hear you say her name before the end!"

He stretched his body and kicked the knight of Heart's Home over the chest. Ser Lyn rolled with the kick and landed on one knee. He held his shield out with the blade hovering just over the lip.

"Say it! Elia of Dorne!" The Red Viper surged forward like a wave and struck the spear out with a range the armored knight couldn't hope to match.

It struck Corbray's shield, but he didn't flinch. The knight's center of gravity was too low for Oberyn to knock him over without pushing him. The Prince of Dorne began circling Ser Lyn like a shark, striking his spear at the center, at the minute gap in between Ser Lyn's shoulder and his breastplate.

"Elia of Dorne!" the spear hit shield.

"You betrayed her!" the spear slid off a raven and Ser Lyn though he might have an opening. He swung his sword at Oberyn's neck but his cut fell short when the Martell sun blocked the blade.

"Elia of Dorne!" the spear glanced off his breastplate, "Say her name!"

Arianne knew that there was a host of men responsible for Elia's fate inside Oberyn's mind. His hope for true and total revenge was taken on the field south of the God's Eye when Ser Gregor was killed by a hail of arrows and a dozen knights. Now, all that energy, all that pent up aggression waiting for vengeance was funneled into this. Ser Lyn Corbray said nothing. He took each spear thrust in stride, but his form was sloppy. He didn't flinch once, but he acted like there were stones in his boots when Oberyn appeared to be fighting on winged feet.

"Elia of Dorne!" Spear. Impact.

"Say her name!" Spear. Impact.

"Elia of Dorne!" Spear. Impact.

"You betrayed her!" Spear. Impact.

"You let the dogs in!" Spear. Impact.

"_Say it!_" the Red Viper thrust his spear forward so hard and fast it broke through Ser Lyn's shield and pierced his arm on the other side. Oberyn wrenched the spear out and the shield came with it, Ser Lyn was knocked off balance. The Red Viper surged forward and kicked the knight in the breastplate. He went flying across the yard and landed on his back. The crowd, having completely forgotten the Iron Throne hinged on the battle cheered seeing blood and a man on the ground. It seemed the smallfolk wanted blood almost as much as Oberyn.

Almost.

He tore the shield from the spearhead and cast it across the Dragonpit. The Red Viper marched forward with a lethal intention. Ser Lyn tried to find his feet, but couldn't in time. When he got close enough, Oberyn cast his own shield off and held the spear in both hands. He raised the shaft and blade high above his head as he shouted, "Say her name!" He leapt into the air and shouted his battle cry, "_EEEEELLLLLLIIIIIAAAAA!" _

He landed on the dirt and the head of his spear impacted nothing but bloodstained mud. When the Red Viper looked up, he saw the knight of Heart's Home standing in front of him.

And that was the moment Arianne Martell understood who was the real snake between the two of them.

Like a whip, just as Oberyn Martell landed like a quake onto the Dragonpit, Ser Lyn whirled to his feet before his movement could even register to the Red Viper. He never even had to remove his head. Ser Lyn judged the distance just right, and swung his sword so just the tip of the blade cut through the Red Viper's throat.

Blood sprayed and painted the knight's breastplate as the Red Viper reeled backwards and crashed onto his back. Ellaria Sand cried out next to her and held her hands over her tears. Robb Stark hung his head. But Arianne only felt like retching when she saw what happened next: Ser Lyn knelt on one knee and whispered something in Oberyn's ear. She knew exactly what it was: "Elia of Dorne."

That was when people started running out of the Dragonpit to tell everyone who couldn't see or get a seat or simply hadn't made it: "The Red Viper is dead! The Red Viper is dead!" She saw Petyr Baelish on the other end of the Dragonpit smile.

They said the Red Viper was dead, but what they meant was "Petyr Baelish is innocent in the sight of gods and men!" But it was only the men that counted. They would hitch their cart to a winning horse.

And crown Petyr Baelish King.


	38. Tyrion IX

**Tyrion**

There would be a vote on the morrow. Not doubt, Littlefinger and his minions were going around passing out promises and favors apiece. He was already awarding the Wardenship of the North to Roose Bolton and the Wardenship of the South to Alester Florent. That much was certain. Tyrion wasn't sure to whom he'd be awarding the position of Warden to the West to, but he knew he wouldn't slight his lady wife and take the Wardenship of the East from her poor sweetrobin.

Tyrion had no intention of being slighted and having the position of Warden of the West taken from his hands. Perhaps giving him Tommen so that House Lannister could keep that position might be worth it. Who knows, maybe Tommen would even be king one day…

He nodded to the two Tully guards and told them he wanted to speak with her. One of the guards came back out and responded, "My lady thinks it quite late for your kind of be calling on her at this hour."

"Please tell her I understand, but it's of urgent import."

The guard disappeared and returned a minute later to open the door. Tyrion walked through and saw Lady Stark in a thick robe of Tully red and blue at a writing desk. She seemed to be working on a stack of letters quite urgently, "What is it that you want, Lord Tyrion?" _At least she didn't say Imp_, Tyrion tried looking on the bright side.

"I was hoping we might talk in the face of Littlefinger's impending victory tomorrow." Tyrion walked to the center of the room and found an empty chair, "Do you mind if I sit?"

"If you're in my solar in the dead of night, you might as well. Should I offer your some wine or bread and cheese while you're at it, my Lord?" the sarcasm in her voice didn't go unnoticed. Tyrion was something of a master of it the same way Jaime was once a master of swords or Joffrey was a master at being a prick. If she was offering, Tyrion might as well…

"Some wine would certainly hit the spot right about now, if it's not too much trouble, Lady Stark."

She picked up the pitcher and set it down on the end of the desk with enough force to send a small storm of Dornish red up and splatter over the ashen frame. Tyrion ignored it, grabbed his own goblet, and poured himself a serving. He sipped it for a moment before beginning, "Lady Stark, I know you and Littlefinger go back a long way."

"He was fostered with us at Riverrun. He was once like a brother to me."

"Once. Not any more."

"He is as responsible for my husband's death as the Queen or Joffrey. His Trial in the Dragonpit was as farcical as yours was at the Eyrie."

Tyrion wasn't sure he would be able to get past that shield she was erecting against him. She just wondered which was worse: her hatred for Littlefinger, or her hatred for the Imp. After all, in Catelyn's mind, Tyrion attempted to murder her son, but failed. Littlefinger attempted to murder her husband, and very much succeeded, "I still maintain my innocence, Lady Stark. And it would seem for once the Gods favored me. For whatever reason, they favored Littlefinger. But I want to bring the issue back to what started this war: dynastic succession."

For a brief moment, he seemed to catch Catelyn Stark's attention, "What about it?"

"Well, we find ourselves on the cusp of a Baelish Dynasty. After Littlefinger dies, things being as they are, the Throne will pass to his bastard daughter Alayne."

Lady Stark seemed absolutely surprised at that, "I wasn't aware he had a daughter…"

"Neither was I," Tyrion said, "he _asked_ me to betroth my nephew to her. Given things how they are, however, I imagine Queen Lysa will be producing new heirs for Littlefinger and eventually we will see new Baelors, new Daerons, new Aegons, and new Aeryses." From the wandering look in her eyes, Tyrion could see he had her full attention, "Why did the North declare itself free from the Iron Throne? Ned Stark's execution represented the last straw of southron interference in Northern succession. Rickard and Benjen Stark's executions being the first volley in that fare."

"Littlefinger is ambitious… but law is law. We made this bed. I'm afraid we have to sleep in it."

"Perhaps. But maybe it's not too late to adjust the sheets for the next people to sleep here."

"Lord Tyrion, how do you expect to predict the future and stop Petyr's descendants from being tyrants and monsters?"

"I certainly can't do that. But I think we might be able to control _which of them sits the Iron Throne._ History shows that we have two types of legitimate rule in Westeros: right by conquest and right by lineage. One always supports the other. The Targaryen Dynasty rested on the descent from Aegon's conquest. The Blackfyres rebelled under the exact same pretense. Robert was enthroned thanks to his rebellion, but he was chosen from between Jon Arryn and Ned Stark because he shared ancestry with Aegon the Unlikely."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that our entire system of rule is built upon these two pillars that justify drunks and tyrants to rule. It produces monstrosities like the Targaryens who wed brother to sister just to keep power unnecessarily in their hands. What I propose is that we plant a seed for the next line of kings. There will be _no _Baelish Dynasty. Or any other Dynasty for that matter. Dynasties are passed by lineage and justified by conquest. From tomorrow on, the Iron Throne will be passed by right of election."

Catelyn Stark stared at him with a thousand thoughts flying behind those Tully blue eyes as she tried to connect the tragedy of her husband's family, of her former fiancée, with the chaos and madness of the Iron Throne and its laws. She stood and walked over to her window. A crescent moon hovered over Blackwater Bay as she looked east toward Pentos.

She whirled to Tyrion and said in a half-whisper, "This is madness." She looked at him and tried to drown the Imp in her river-colored eyes, gazing at him for every possible hidden motive and intention but she couldn't find any so she just asked, "What is in this for you? The fact that a Lannister might sit the Iron Throne once again?"

"I admit it opens the possibility for a Lannister to sit the Iron Throne. But it also opens up the possibility for… anyone to sit it. If Petyr Baelish could sit there, then any Lord from Dorne to the Wall is justified."

"It's madness," she repeated, "No such thing has been done in the history of Westeros."

"Not unless you count the Kingsmoots on the Iron Islands. We _did _after all consult ironborn histories for precisely that reason." Tyrion tried to ignore the last Kingsmoot they had on Old Wyk, which resulted in Urron Greyiron rising to the Driftwood Crown by the right of axe. Tyrion was glad the only casualties in this Kingsmoot were the Red Viper and a few knights from the Dragonpit Tourney, "But I think it's a reason we should bring this idea now. It is not such an uncommon idea in the Free Cities."

"I don't see why we should see to emulate the Free Cities." Catelyn said, her conservative brain still clinging to the Dynastic way of thinking.

"Well take for example Volantis. They sought to create empire and war when the Tigers ruled their city. And only an alliance of Aegon, the Storm Kings, Tyrosh, Pentos, and Braavos could stop them. That was three hundred years ago. Since that chaos, two of the three Triarchs that rule the city have always been Elephants who favored diplomacy and trade."

"Not to say that Volantis has always been peaceful these three centuries."

"No, of course not. But how many wars of succession have the Seven Kingdoms suffered since Aegon's Conquest." He saw Catelyn Stark count them. If Aegon's Conquest counts as a matter of forging a Dynasty via right of conquest, then that was one. The Dance of the Dragons made two. There were two Blackfyre Rebellions and the War of the Ninepenny Kings that saw Maelys the Monstrous rise. The sixth and seventh would be Robert's and Balon's Rebellions and the eighth would be the War of the Five Kings. Tyrion wasn't even counting the Young Dragon's Conquest of Dorne. Nine wars in three centuries: all regarding who had the better claim to the Iron Throne.

"Too many," was all Lady Stark said, "Too many wars have been fought and too many of our sons have lost their lives… too many of my sons." Finally, they agreed on something. Tyrion smiled having brought her over to the side of reason, "But Lord Tyrion, how are we supposed to change centuries of tradition? As far as the Lords of Westeros know, the Kingsmoot is to choose a new Dynasty and they are ready to choose a Baelish one."

"Yes, I know. But the Kingsmoot Rules and Constraints haven't made it very far. You still have the master copy, if I remember correctly?"

"Yes," she began searching a stack of papers for the document. She produced it and Tyrion saw the parchment and the assortment of signatures at the bottom.

"Now we just add a fifth clause on the bottom: this is the first Kingsmoot in a line of Kingsmoot. All claimants, by submitting to the Iron Throne, here lay down lineal claim to the Iron Throne and submit to the Throne's hereby established right of election."

Catelyn and Tyrion spent the rest of the night copying down the Kingsmoot Rules and Constraints word for word on similar parchment, with that one fifth rule at the bottom added. With all the chaos the first Kingsmoot was, Tyrion wasn't sure how they were going to pass this all off as "Oh that was always there…" once Littlefinger died.

They decided just as the sun rose to burn their first copy. Once the next King was crowned, they would have copies made of the Rules and Constraints and have them distributed across the Realm. By the time a new King had to be chosen, there might be enough Lords who remembered that fifth clause and called for a Second Kingsmoot.

Tyrion would certainly make sure Tommen called for one.


	39. Arianne VI

**Arianne**

The Princess sat on the edge of her bed with her face buried in her hands. It was all for naught. She rode all the way from Sunspear to King's Landing, convinced her gouty father that Myrcella had a claim to the Throne, and then arrived here only to be tricked by a Mockingbird and a Murder. And got her uncle killed in the process.

She wasn't sure what to do next. Arianne supposed that was probably what made Littlefinger who he was: Arianne and the rest of the Lords of Westeros never considered what might happen if they lose. They didn't prepare alternative plans. Littlefinger had a plan for everything and a finger in every pie. She tried to figure out what came next. She'd take her uncles bones back to Dorne. She'd take Myrcella too. Then what?

There was a light knock at the door. The Dornish guard in copper ring plate opened it slightly and said, "My Princess, the Lord of Winterfell is here for you."

Arianne knew she shouldn't see him. She should send him away, "Send him in."

Robb Stark walked in and shut the door behind him. Arianne couldn't bear to look at him with tears in her eyes, "I thought you were leaving tonight."

Robb sat down on the bed next to her, "So did I. But the majority of my bannermen insist on remaining here to cast the vote. My counselors convinced me it would be beneficial to stay and appear strong. Especially when most of my bannermen will not be voting for my chosen monarch."

"I wish I could say the same. My presence doesn't seem to have as much of an effect here. Lord Harmen Uller has taken control of the Dornish delegation… what am I to do? Go back to Sunspear?" she laughed and felt a tear fall down the side of her face. She was ashamed of herself until Robb put an arm on her shoulder.

"Princess…" Robb said, "You are the heir to Dorne. You will be Lady Paramount in due time."

"No," she sobbed, "my father wants my brother to succeed him. He wants to deny me my inheritance. I thought… I thought by crowning Myrcella, I could manipulate her and force my father's hand."

"How can your father deny you Sunspear? It's law."

"It is…" Arianne hated this story. She lived it every day of her life. But she never cared as much as she did today. She once told Robb Stark that women had inherent power, and she believed it every day of her life until today. Today it was meaningless because all of her plans crashed down around her like a castle made of glass, "I was four and ten. I went to give my father a kiss goodnight. My brother Quentyn had been sent to Yronwood to be fostered after my… uncle killed Lord Ormond, so Quentyn was to be Lord Anders' gift. It would seem to be a prison at first. But my father's solar was empty that night. He'd left a candle burning on his desk so I went to go blow it out. When I did so, I looked down and saw a letter: _you must do all your maester and master-at-arms require of you, because one day you will sit where I sit, and rule all of Dorne, and a ruler must be strong of mind and body._" The tears started flowing now. Her father's slight would never heal, Arianne knew that now, "I am his daughter. But I mean less to him than any daughter ever meant to a father."

Robb wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close. She rested her head on his shoulder as she wrapped her arms around his neck, "He has offered me to so many men… Walder Frey. Ben Beesbury. Greybeards without teeth. He _hates _me Robb. _Hates _me and I don't know why. I am his heir. His only daughter. I was born a Princess and when my father leaves this world, I will have nothing."

She broke free of his embrace, "I… I'm sorry." She walked over to the table and poured herself a glass of wine. She drank it in one gulp. Perhaps she should find her mother. Learn to be a Norvoshi noblewoman. Perhaps Areo would even take her. She looked back at Robb and for a moment, he seemed so small. He seemed like he was ready to draw his sword, to try and do the only thing he knew to do: to fight his way out of a problem. Instead, he hung his head and looked like he was about to shatter into a million shards.

"We're so different." was all he said.

Arianne poured a glass of wine and handed it to him, "How? From where I'm standing things don't seem so."

"Princess… you're uncle said something that made me think: if this world had gone differently, how different our lives would be. I am my father's son. I know that. But my mother was not supposed to marry my father. She was supposed to marry my uncle Brandon. Had he lived, my uncle would be the Lord of Winterfell. My father might have married some Mormont, or Umber, or Manderly… and I would call her mother. But my father would have no inheritance. He would flock to fight my uncle's wars, otherwise enjoy a quiet life. Maybe he would have gone to Storm's End to be a sworn sword to Lord Robert. The Starks have guarded the Wall for thousands of years since Brandon the Builder. My father might have just gone there himself, and I would have never been." Robb drank long enough to finish the glass, "I was never supposed to be Lord of Winterfell, any more than my father was to be. My father always thought he was Unworthy of the Throne of Winter. What does that make me? Robb the Unconsidered?"

"You're our Young Wolf, Robb."

"No. I'm the Stark we have left. The weight of my family and all their honor is on my shoulders. What I wouldn't give for it to be relieved just a little. And all you want, is to take yours… so you see Princess: we are night and day." Robb Stark walked over to the table and filled the glass once more. He downed it in two gulps, "North and south." He filled it once more, "Ice and fire." He slammed the glass on the table.

Arianne walked over to him before he could storm out of the room and took his hand in hers. He whirled, almost as if he was going to hit her. He was cold. The Young Wolf was certainly right about that, he was ice on the outside. As prickly as any Northerner should be. A true son of Eddard Stark. She pulled him close and laid a hand on his chest. She could feel his heart beating from underneath his layers of furs, and doublet, and smallclothes. He had the wolf's blood, like the uncle he never knew and yet missed so dearly.

She looked up into his eyes. They began to soften as Arianne recognized the fire she saw hiding away inside of him. She realized he was right. Their situations were the complete inverse of each other. He was ice on the outside and fire within. But she… she gave her maidenhead to the Bastard of Godsgrace. He was cute. Charming. And gentle when Arianne needed it. But in the end, he was a new toy Arianne was just learning how to use. She'd used so many men. She used Arys Oakheart, a Knight of the Kingsguard. So many men who meant nothing to her. Her blood was Rhoynish, heated by the venom from snake sauce, blood oranges, and fiery peppers. But inside she was as frigid and cold as ice.

Arianne looked into the Wolf's eyes, wrapped a hand around his neck, and pulled his mouth to hers. He tasted like water and blood. His arms, thick and strong, wrapped around her and hugged her close to his body, his cloak made of some northern beast.

She had the sudden fantasy of asking him to marry her. He could take two wives, like the dragons. She could share Robb Stark. She didn't even mind if that meant being with Roslin. She saw his little wife. She was pretty enough.

They would lay out the wolf furs on the floor of in front of the great hearth and make love to each other until they couldn't breathe, or had fucked each other to sleep. The Northern winter would blow and blizzard outside and beat against the walls of the keep, but they'd huddle close to each other and sweat. They would be ice and fire bridged.

But Robb Stark was here in her arms. No, she was suddenly in his arms. She was all of five-foot nothing and he had the blood of a giant as well as a wolf. He picked her up, and never left her lips until he dropped her on the bed and threw his furs onto the floor with a flick of his wrist and the release of a chain.

Arianne tried to find the strings to her dress but couldn't seem to manage. Robb managed to bare his chest and he climbed onto the bed, on top of Arianne and started to remove her dress, tearing it half to shreds, stopping, and trying to find a less destructive way to take it off. Arianne couldn't imagine one. She pressed his hands close and just nodded furiously, _Yes yes yes, take it off. Just tear the whole damned thing off. _

He finally did and she was lying naked beneath him except for his pants. With her silk dress in tatters lying on the floor, her shaking hands fumbled with the string. She started laughing as he held himself above her tiny frame, fingers fumbling and trying desperately to unleash what he had hiding there.

She looked up just as the string came undone. He was smiling the widest smile. Like he was truly happy…

Robb kissed her, running his hand through her ringlets of black hair and pulling her into him. His mouth migrated to her neck where he started to bite her. She felt her breathing tighten and her whole body tense. Robb drew a path down her body with his lips. From her neck to her collarbone, to her nipples, to her naval, and finally to her wetness. Arianne never knew any man who wasn't paid would do that… but Robb did.

Her hands gripped the sheets so hard her hands began to hurt. She wanted to scream out, she didn't care if someone heard. But she opened her mouth and her voice left her. _Ice and fire_, she thought to herself_, this is ice and fire_.

Robb climbed on top of her again. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. She realized then how many Dornishmen she abused, how many Aryses there'd been that she'd used. And Arianne realized she was in love with him. Arianne pushed Robb onto his back and straddled him. She bent over his chest and kissed him. Robb slid his tongue into her mouth as he took her breasts in both hands, running his thumbs over her nipples.

Arianne took his manhood and placed it against her. She was about to lower herself on him when he held up his hand to the center of her chest, pushing her away from him. She stopped, the smile disappearing from her face. Was he rejecting her? Was he about to stop? She should've told him about that old Norvoshi woman and the six-line prophesy. _Going through to the end brings misfortune. _Maybe this was as far as they were to go. They could touch and kiss and fondle each other, but going any farther would just result in… misfortune.

It was then that Arianne realized her fantasy of lying on a wolf's skin in front of a Winterfell hearth was just that: a fantasy. Robb Stark already had a second wife: honor. Quentyn could have Sunspear, she would just give anything to lie every night with her wolf. But she was the usurped Princess of Dorne. She had nothing left to give.

Maybe Arianne could slight Roslin Frey, but she couldn't destroy Robb's honor forever. She was about to relent and climb off of him. Her smile faded… and then Robb's hands went to her hips and pulled her hips against his. She gasped as he entered her and her hands squeezed his wrists until her knuckles burned white. She fell forward and their faces met again.

"Arianne," he growled like a wolf.

"I love you," she whispered into his ear.

He was strong and gentle all at once. His Northern hands and manhood held her slight Rhoynish frame and filled her like no one ever did.

Arianne whispered it again, "I love you."

Robb shuddered. He was about to finish. Arianne was no stranger to moon tea. She had come far too often by herself, or with her cousin to worry about needing a man for it. But she _wanted _him. He clutched her back, she wrapped her arms around his neck and mane of auburn hair as he bit into her neck.

He ended inside her.


	40. Robb X

**Robb**

He was running again. There was a faint taste of blood in his mouth from the deer. He wasn't selfish. When a pair of smaller brothers came, he let them have some. Soon enough, they were friends. They led him to the good hunting ground and took down an aurochs together. He could've done it himself, but it was nice to have friends again that weren't chained beasts who'd forgotten their heritage. After the aurochs was taken, they all sat and called out. Brothers and sisters from all over this green land descended onto the fallen beast and had their share. In the pack, you share everything.

As they feasted on the aurochs, he smelled something distinct on their coat. It was a familiar smell. He couldn't pinpoint it right away, but he knew it. There was something recognizable about it. Though he could swear he'd never met these brothers and sisters in his life, he could smell Winterfell on them. He stood on that high hill and sniffed the wind. Only faint memories greeted him as he looked north to his brothers. There was one sister gone long ago. But the other was still out there. He sniffed and sniffed the wind looking for her…

Robb woke and realized it was just a dream. He wasn't a direwolf. He wasn't a King either. He was alone and had just dreamt about being Grey Wind. He'd dreamt about being Arianne Martell's lover. Would he ever do something like that? Would Robb Stark betray his honor for the right woman? He was his father's son, and his father had done that…

He looked around and noticed he wasn't in his solar at the Red Keep. The room looked familiar though he couldn't remember where he was. He stood up out of the bed and saw the tatters of an orange silk dress on the floor. _The colors of House Martell. _

Robb looked up and saw the door to the bath open and Arianne step out of it. She was wearing an ornate snake that wrapped twice around her arm. He realized two things at that moment: he wasn't dreaming and the copper snake was all that she was wearing.

She turned to him and walked slowly, the black ringlets of her hair dancing gracefully as she stood in front of him, wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him. Robb felt like he was dreaming once more. He grew hard and Arianne took him inside her without a word.

It was those moments that Robb forgot he was a Stark. All the thoughts of Arianne's loss of her inheritance, Robb's own honor, the loss of his family, it all melted away somewhere between Arianne's eyes, her tits, and the rest of her womanly frame. The Princess of Dorne had a licentious reputation. Roslin came to his bed a maiden. But Robb couldn't discern which of them he'd rather have until this moment. Roslin was the more honorable, more proper choice. But Arianne whispered that sacred mantra to him last night. Maybe she was the better lover. The more experienced one. The less honorable one. All Robb knew was that he was pretty certain he loved her too.

He tried protesting, but Arianne kissed him as he finished inside her once again. His whole body shook as Arianne moved over and lay beside him. He looked over and saw her in the dim candlelight fondling one breast, with the other hand holding herself. Robb rolled onto his side and kissed her. He moved her hand aside and pushed it deep into her. He'd never felt a woman with his hand before…

She moaned into his mouth and wrapped one soaked hand around his neck as she started to shake and tense uncontrollably. She told Robb to stop. He did and removed his hand. Before he could take it far, Arianne grabbed his hand and sucked on his fingers slowly. Robb laughed, never noticing how inexperienced he was until this moment. Something that was vaguely sensual to him seemed to give her a lot of pleasure.

His Princess lay down next to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, nuzzling her face into his neck, "Robb…" she whispered gently.

"Arianne," Robb responded, "What are we going to do?"

She seemed to not expect the question at all, "What do you mean?"

"I mean… I should not have done this."

Arianne sat up and looked down at him, "Robb Stark… there's more to life than doing your duty."

"Not when I was born for that duty. I'm not allowed to be free like this." Robb looked away.

"All men are meant to be free," Arianne kissed him on the cheek to try and underline her words, "Why do you think slavery isn't allowed in the Seven Kingdoms any longer? Besides, you weren't born to be Lord of Winterfell. You were born to be Robb Stark, his uncle's sworn sword."

"But my uncle died before I was even born…" as quickly as he'd forgotten his family and his honor, it came rushing back to him like an unbearable wave, "I have an honor and a duty now. What if… what if we've conceived a child tonight?"

Arianne looked away. Even in the dimness of the dying candle, Robb could see the sadness on her face. She almost whispered, "I am no stranger to moon tea."

Robb instantly felt horrible, "I wouldn't wish it on you unless you wanted it. But being corrupted… stained by another Lord? It's easy enough for a Lord to deny, much less a Lady or a Princess."

"Unless you marry me." She turned to him with a look that combined seriousness and longing.

Robb almost laughed, "I am married already, Princess." Then he understood and his smile faded, "You want me to marry you _and _Roslin?"

"You're already married to Roslin. I want you to just add me to the mixture. What dishonor is there in that?"

"There… isn't." Robb could find any, "But it's not done."

"The Targaryens did without problem," Arianne insisted, "Why not the Starks and Martells? We're not Andal. Why should we abide by their custom of only having one wife?"

"The Targaryens also married brother to sister. And few of the Targaryen kings had multiple wives. Who was the last one since Aegon the Conquerer?"

"Viserys I." Arianne insisted, "He had an Arryn and a Hightower wife. Why shouldn't you have a Frey and a Martell?"

"The first Viserys," Robb began, "had two wives. And the product of both produced the Dance of the Dragons. Would you sow the seeds of a civil war with our issue?"

The look on Arianne's face was dark, "For you, I would sow any seed."

Robb sat up, "My Princess…"

"Am I?" she accused him.

Robb looked away, "You would share me with Lady Roslin?"

"I would. You think I have not loved a woman before?"

Robb thanked the dark light. He blushed at the sudden thought of Roslin and Arianne together.

"Those Freys are unnaturally fertile, Robb Stark, unless you scorn her bed more often than not, I find it hard to believe she is not with child yet."

Indeed she was, Robb was ashamed to admit it though, "You'd be willing to…"

"To submit to the laws of succession? That's all I've ever wanted. Why should I scorn your first born, whether it was born of Lady Roslin or me?"

Robb noticed she didn't say first born _son_, "It's still not done."

"All it takes is the Lord of Winterfell to begin the custom anew. Claim the customs of the First Men. Claim your honor. Lady Roslin is no stranger to the comings of women. How many wives has the Lord of the Crossing had all these years?"

Robb didn't like to think of his good-father ever, never mind in the presence of the sublime unaltered beauty of the Princess of Dorne. But Catelyn Tully was the product of a loving home. If Lord Hoster ever had a lover, he was discreet about it enough that no one ever knew. When Lady Catelyn was introduced to the infant Jon, it was just the beginning of a mental plague that haunted her whenever she looked at him. Jon Snow was Robb's brother, but he was a constant reminder to Lady Catelyn that her husband was unfaithful. Lady Roslin had dozens of bastard brothers. If Robb carried a natural son to Winterfell, maybe it wouldn't bother her as much. If he took a second wife… that was untested ground since the blood of Old Valyria ruled the Iron Throne.

"I don't know," was all he said.

"Do you love me?"

Robb closed his eyes, "Yes."

"Do you regret what has happened between us?"

"Of course not."

"Then marry me. Lady Roslin will accept it, with time if not immediately. Your bannermen are just that, your bannermen. You will open up a new custom. Your Lords will marry for love, not politics. Your children will have two mothers, not just one. And how warm will our bed be with three bodies instead of two?"

There was an old saying about a woman's hands. How much truer would it be with winter coming.

"I will talk to Roslin… I won't slight her." _Even though I already have…_

That seemed to surprise Arianne entirely, "You… you will?" she smiled.

Robb nodded, "I promise."

Arianne kissed him and pushed his head to the pillow, "We have a few more hours until dawn." She climbed on top of him and led his hands to her chest. Robb thought how cruel the gods were to make a woman like his Princess.


	41. Brienne VI

**Brienne**

The sailors had an old saying about the red sky. Brienne had enough experience on boats in the sapphire isle to validate the expression.

When the Kingsmoot came to order there seemed to be an almost unanimous pounding on the tables and overflow of wine and headaches. Brienne looked over at her King and saw his face and hair unkempt beneath that perfect antler crown. In his hand was a wineskin. He wasn't shaking as much any more, but he was wobbling like any proper drunkard should. Brienne felt like crying.

The maester stood up as soon as the Lords of Westeros were assembled in their proper tables and quiet enough to hear the maester call for the vote. Robb Stark was somewhere between a whisper and an admittance of defeat. So few Lords followed his vote for Stannis. Only one stayed on Renly's sinking ship.

The Riverlands were worse, converting almost entirely from Renly to Petyr. Even Edmure Tully followed Petyr Baelish against his nephew's advice. Traitors. Traitors all of them.

The West pulled 60% for Petyr, and so did the Crownlands. The Reachlords began to dissent, revealing how disunited they truly were. Ser Emmon Cuy turned against Renly after those vicious rumors. House Hightower, always knowing which way the wind blows, threw in their lot with Baelish along with many of the lords on the outer edge of the Reach.

Dorne voted as one for Petyr Baelish, with only the Princess Arianne voting to keep little Myrcella Baratheon on the Throne. Her support combined with the few from the West for Myrcella was not enough to keep her in the running. But when they were done counting the Stormlords that were abandoning the Baratheon camp in favor of the Baelish one, it was evident that another vote wasn't needed.

When the voting was done and they tallied the percentages, it was clear that Petyr Baelish had won. His supporters began chanting "Mockingbird! Mockingbird! Mockingbird King!" over and over again. Brienne was never so thankful for her armor so the Lords of Westeros couldn't see her cry.

"Mockingbird! Mockingbird! Mockingbird King!"

Brienne wished it had come to war. Renly should never have allied with Robb Stark or Stannis Baratheon. He should have crushed them all. He had the strength. He had the men. And he had Brienne. She was only a sword, and all she could do for him, she did on the battlefield. But where did that leave her now?

"Mockingbird! Mockingbird! Mockingbird King!"

The maester read the results aloud:

**P. Baelish: 135 (68%)**  
**R. Baratheon: 29 (14%)**  
**S. Baratheon: 28 (14%)**  
**M. Baratheon: 8 (4%)**

When that happened, everyone knew it was over. Petyr Baelish had just won. The Lords of Westeros chanted even more furiously than before. Many of the Lords who didn't vote for Lord Baelish out of loyalty, or promises to other Kings joined in. While there were a few of the Lords who didn't join for one reason or another. Brienne tried to look and see.

Edmure Tully looked away and refused to chant along with the rest of his bannermen. Little Lord Robert Arryn cheered fanatically as only a child could. He pounded on the table. Brienne noticed the absence of Ser Lyn Corbray. The Dornishmen drank furiously to their newfound autonomy, and the Crownlords seemed happy to finally have a King to sit their Iron Throne.

Brienne watched as King-elect Petyr Baelish stood in front of the Lords of Westeros and called for quiet so he could speak. When they finally settled down, Baelish smiled:

**My Lords of Westeros, not since Lord Arryn honored me with a seat on the Small Council have I been so honored. In all the history of the Iron Throne, we have had only conquerors and men of question on the Throne. We rejoice in the Aegons and Daerons and Baelors, but look for all of the Viseryses and Aeryses in between. Today, we can look at the Kings that might have been. When I sit on that Throne, hold true that _you _sit on that Throne. At last, Westeros will be free from debt, free from the Targaryen Wars. At last, order will reign once more!**

There was an explosion of noise and the cheering resumed once more. Renly stood from his chair and descended the steps to the Stormlord's tables, drinking every step of the way. Myrcella was called down by the Dornish Princess who hugged her tightly and kissed her golden curls. Stannis Baratheon stood and looked at Petyr Baelish with blood in his eyes. He said a few words to Petyr Baelish before storming past the crowd of cheering Lords drunk on a King's victory. His guard and men stormed out with him along with many of the sworn lords of the Narrow Sea.

Brienne felt like following him. What did she have left here? Renly would not have her as a woman. And he would not be a King. She was only a sword. How could she serve him except on the battlefield?

She removed herself from the table of the Stormlords and left the Red Keep. Brienne hated herself. She was just a sword. A sword without a king to defend. Brienne wandered King's Landing once more and found a pub with a ring of flowers on the sign: Baelor the Brewer. She wandered inside and ordered a pint. She sipped it slowly. Baelor's was one of the best ales in the city, but after the other night, she had drunk too much and just the scent of alcohol made her feel like retching.

All she remembered was drinking and waking up to a splitting headache in her chambers. After the Queen – no, Lady Margaery – told her what she was, it was hard to think about anything that didn't directly concern where to place her feet.

"You!" a man called out.

Brienne looked up and there was a tall man with coal black hair and a hooked nose smiling something wicked at her. He was dressed in mail and plate and wore a doublet with a black and red sigil Brienne had never seen before. This whole scene was starting to feel familiar, though Brienne could confess that she'd never set foot in this brewery or seen this man before. Men typically didn't like to talk to her.

"Do I know you?"

"No you don't. But you're Brienne the Blue. I saw you at the Dragonpit Tourney."

Brienne drank and forced it down her throat, "Just Brienne," she said, "I am no longer associated with the Rainbow Guard."

"You're not? Did you follow Ser Emmon out? Upset with Renly's… _preferences_?" the man took it upon himself to sit next to her. Brienne didn't want to look at him.

"No." she growled, "I just left."

"Either way," he continued, "your good with the sword. My employer has been organizing a mission across the Narrow Sea and has sent me to find as many strong swordsmen as I can. I guess you're not strictly a swords_man_ but I've seen you best so many. And rumor has it you beat Ser Loras within an inch of his life once."

Brienne was still stuck on "across the Narrow Sea." When she thought about it, it was perfect. How could she return to Tarth? Lord Selwyn had no heirs but Brienne, but she needed to leave. Tarth was too close to Storm's End. She'd be too close for Renly to call her. If she went East…

"When do you plan on leaving?"

"About a week. We're still planning a few of the details. You think you'll join?"

Brienne nodded, "Yes." She tried finishing her ale, forcing it down without retching. She turned to the tall man and said, "What's your name?"

"Kettleblack. Ser Osney Kettleblack."


	42. Robb XI

**Robb**

"King Petyr has taken up in Maegor's Holdfast," Ser Lothor Brune said, "He requests that you remain in King's Landing until after the coronation."

Robb Stark had no desire to stay for Baelish's coronation. But he didn't want to lose more than he already had. And he'd been doing a lot of things he had no desire to do anyway. What was one night left in the capital? Robb sighed and said, "Tell Lord Baelish…"

"The proper title for a reigning monarch is His Grace."

Robb closed his eyes and thought of simpler times, "When Petyr Baelish is crowned, I consider him a reigning monarch. Tell Lord Baelish I'll stay in the capital one night longer but will return to Winterfell the moment after his crowning." That seemed to satisfy Ser Lothor who turned and left. Robb walked down the hall to see Dacey, "Go get some rest," he said, "We're staying another night."

"_Another_, Your… my Lord?" the title shift was giving everyone whiplash.

"I'm not excited about it either," he sighed, "but we are leaving on the morrow. Have no doubt." Dacey left her post to go sleep. Robb walked back to his chambers to find Ser Edmure and his mother sitting with Roslin.

"Robb," his mother stood and walked over to him. She hugged him as he wrapped his hands around her and thought of the promise he made Arianne.

"What is it?"

"It's official," Edmure said, "Roose Bolton has just been named Warden of the North. But the way it's worded, he'll only retain that position while Littlefinger sits the Iron Throne."

Robb knew it was going to happen, "Uncle… why did you vote for Petyr?"

"Nephew," he encouraged, "you wrong me. We're family. I will never forget that. For the sake of our family, I thought it was best that we seemed supportive of the new King. It wouldn't do us much good if we were to lose the Lordship of the Trident."

"No, uncle, you're right. I was only… only curious."

"Of course, nephew, if you wish to prepare for war again… we could begin the preparations. All that's needed is time to grow crops, to rebuild our walls, restore our navy and our armies. It can be done."

Robb considered the notion. With Littlefinger threatened, he had House Bolton as an ally. They could easily be overwhelmed with Lords Umber and Karstark. Robb could take Arianne as a second wife and claim it as a political necessity. That would force Littlefinger's hand into a two-front war. With winter coming, Northern forces could easily march against the knights of summer who'd never seen snow. No, that was an understatement. Winter was hard on everyone. Just because the sons of the North were more used to harsher winters doesn't mean it would be an easy war. Wars were never easy. And for as many winters as Robb had seen, he'd never fought a war during one.

"Not today. Not until Littlefinger gives us a reason to." Robb declared. Thank you for your support, uncle. But until Littlefinger becomes hostile, I don't see any reason to continue the bloodshed." Robb thought of his father, "There's been enough of that for one war."

Robb sighed and Catelyn seemed to agree, "We'll return to Winterfell on the morrow," she looked over at Roslin, "We'll return and everything will be as it should have been from the start."

"No, mother."

She whirled to look at him, "Robb?"

"I need you to stay here," was he being cruel? Or just the Lord of Winterfell, "Mother you don't want to see Winterfell. When Lady Roslin and my court return, we will rebuild the castle and send for you in time for the birth."

"What?" she started to panic, "Robb, where am I to go?"

"You'll stay here," as much as he didn't want to do this, Robb felt it was necessary, "I need an eye on King Littlefinger. I need to know if he plans anything in the North, and knowing his history, I'm sure he does."

Catelyn closed her eyes and nodded. Robb took her scarred hands in his and then wrapped his arms around her, "By the time you return to Winterfell, it will be rebuilt. I don't want you to see what it looks like now." He turned to his uncle, "Lord Edmure, I'd appreciate it if you could stay in King's Landing and watch over my mother. This is all too dangerous of a place for her to be on her own. I'm sure Ser Brynden could manage the Trident while you're away. If Littlefinger is giving the Iron Islands to the Lords of the Vale, then there's no reason for the Blackfish to lead the invasion. If the Lords of the Vale want the Islands, let them bleed for it."

"To be honest, nephew, if you want someone guarding my sister, it should be the Blackfish. Call him to King's Landing and I'll return to Riverrun."

"Very well," Robb said, "but stay in King's Landing until the Blackfish arrives."

Roslin stood up, "I can maybe ask my father to help us rebuild Winterfell. The Twins have become rich guarding the Crossing all these years."

"If you think Lord Walder will provide funds, you can speak to him when we arrive. I plan on crossing at the Ruby Ford, however. There's no telling what he'll ask for next."

At that Catelyn and Edmure gave their good nights and left the room. He'd see them both before they left tomorrow. Come hell, giants, or dragons, Robb Stark was dedicated to leaving for Winterfell the moment a crown rested on Petyr Baelish's head.

He removed his clothes and prepared for bed. Roslin removed her own clothes, drank a glass of wine, and walked over to Robb who was still staring out the window across the Realm to the North.

Roslin wrapped her hands around his waist and pressed her chest to his back. She squeezed him and spoke gently, "Robb, you didn't come to bed last night."

Robb hadn't thought about what he was going to say about last night's meeting with Arianne, "I'm sorry, Ros. I… I couldn't sleep."

She adjusted and pulled him to the bed. He sat on the edge while Roslin knelt on the sheet and wrapped her arms around his chest. She rested her head on his shoulder and kissed his neck, "I don't want you to worry," she whispered, "I grew up in the Twins. My brothers and sisters do not bother me."

Robb knew what she meant. Her _bastard _brothers and sisters do not bother her. He had no idea if Arianne and he conceived a child. After three engagements, he wouldn't be surprised. He should say something. He promised Arianne he would talk to Roslin. Together the three of them would live in Winterfell. He'd rebuild Winterfell with all the skill of the North, and he'd rebuild the Starks with the wombs of Roslin Frey and Arianne Martell. Gods know they were fertile enough.

He turned to her, "One thing at a time, wife. I… have much to discuss with you. But let's return to Winterfell, rebuild the castle, and then we can talk about… about this."

She looked at him with a quiet sadness. She looked down and held her belly, "I promise," she encouraged, "I'll do anything for you, my love."

Robb lingered on that word, "I'm thankful, Ros. But I just don't know what to do myself," he climbed over to the pillows and pulled Roslin next to him, "I'm just tired." She kissed him good night and covered herself. Robb lay across from her without facing his wife and tried to sleep.

It did not come easy.

He drifted to thoughts of Winterfell. They had plundered the Golden Tooth, Pendric Hills, and Castamere. They had enough gold to rebuild Winterfell. Robb thought about it… maybe he should dip into the Wolfswood and expand the walls of the castle even further, building a palisade around Winter Town.

He thought of the Wolfswood, about hunting elk and caribou and riding alongside his brother. They would run together through trees over wood and water. They would call out to their brothers and sisters, looking under every stone and inside every cave. The scent was powerful in those woods. They reeked of wolf, Stark and otherwise. When he called out to them, they responded in kind. Amidst hundreds of voices, in the great pack, there was one he recognized. He called to the other wolves between growls and barks and they pointed the way with their snouts and paws. He followed them through the trees, avoiding the human roads, following the faint scented trails that wolves made.

They led him up a high hill overlooking a lake with a red center. He looked out at the lake and remembered fighting around here with the army of men and steel. He'd eaten so many lion-men between here and the home wood. All in the quest to find his sister. That was the scent… when he turned around those new brothers and sisters half his size ran the opposite direction and beckoned him to follow.

He ran through the scent-trail as fast as he could, finally by-passing those new brothers and sisters as he followed the trail to his birth sister. He was so close, the scent was almost a taste. He suddenly skidded to a half as he looked around and was suddenly in a clearing the First Men once built. Enormous white stones were pushed to all ends of the circle to mark the sun's rise and fall over the course of the year. A pointless task the humans had an obsession for. But there were a hundred of those small wolves around him standing in between the stones. He stood in the center of the circle, below the crescent moon as scents gathered like flies to a carcass.

He heard the beginning of a pack-wide howl. It started above him on top of one of the rune stones. His sister was sitting there above him. She looked down on him with those frightening yellow eyes filled with power.

Robb awoke in a sweat.

He threw the blanket off and hurried to the wall. He found the closest pitcher and drank, discovering stale wine inside. He swallowed and tried to calm down. When he stared in the mirror, he saw a human face. He was Robb Stark. Not Grey Wind.

He didn't know what to think. The dream didn't even have to do with anything, but it scared Robb. The implications that he could become Grey Wind in his dreams were too frightening for him to handle at this moment. Worse, he knew the scent of that wolf he met. That _Grey Wind _met. He thought she was dead all this time. By all probability she should be.

Robb walked over and sat on the bed. Behind him Roslin was sound asleep. Robb ran a hand through his sweaty hair and said it to himself, "Arya is alive."


	43. Jaime V

**Jaime**

Armor made a man slow. But it kept him alive. In Jaime's case, it was all keeping him alive. He could ride well enough with one hand but he hadn't had nearly enough time to practice his new sword methods with Daven. He relied on his shield more than he ever would with two hands. It didn't matter. Just being on the front line with one hand was enough to encourage his sworn swords and bannermen.

The Serrett soldiers made an attempt battering down the Rock's front gate. The castle's defenses reacted with boiling oil and a flurry of arrows. More men came forward to attack the gate and put up a defense over the ram. Jaime had them bring a pair of scorpions into the Hall and opened the doors unexpectedly. Shocked at the sudden turn of events. Half of the Serrett men fell forward while the other half made an effort at rushing into the Rock.

Instead two scorpion bolts turned their sudden change of luck into a bloodbath. Ser Jaime and his swordsmen leapt into the vanguard as the scorpions reloaded and cleared the gate from Serrett attackers.

There were far more peacocks than there were lions and eventually Jaime's bronze slab for a shield would make his arm tired. He would call a retreat and close the castle doors again. The Serrett invaders didn't know if they should pick up the ram and try again or if they should give up and try a new strategy. Eventually, hours after Jaime had to prepare another set of defenses for the north gate or over at the walls of Lannisport.

By the second time the Serrett forces gathered the courage to start ramming the gate again, the trebuchets had been set up and were being loaded with claypots filled with wildfire.

Jaime had these siege workers train for weeks. Of course, he had to pick the only substance to defend the Rock with that could also burn the Rock down. Either way, there seemed to be no mishaps and the few boulders that hit Casterly Rock did little enough damage to the castle. The caches of wildfire flung at the Serrett siege engines did their work. The green flames tore through beam and chain like silk.

With the trebuchets gone, the battering rams ineffective, and the body count rising, it wasn't long before Lord Wendell Serrett realized the battle was lost and they would not be taking the Rock or become Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. Not today, at least. The Alliance of Gold and Silver began an immediate retreat.

Ser Jaime's cavalry immediately regrouped to begin chasing their enemies down the Goldroad. They ended the day with over a thousand captives including two of Lord Serrett's sons and eight of his nephews. Jaime had never been on this side of the battle before. At the capture of a thousand men, his sworn swords, hedge knights, and bannermen saw him raise that golden attachment over his stump as they declared, "Goldhand! Goldhand! Goldhand!"

That was the last thing Jaime remembered before he woke up three days later. The maid Jaime had first shown his stump to had gotten used to it by now and was washing his swollen and wounded body. Jaime asked her what happened and she narrated in brisk detail, "Ser Daven took control of the Rock while you slept, Lord Jaime. You woke seldom only to drink and make water. You were so tired from leading the van we were all worried you wouldn't wake up again, that there was some wound we hadn't seen. But we kept an eye on you while we arranged the repairs to the castle."

"Can you please get my cousin for me?" she curtsied and left the room. Jaime looked at his stump. It was swollen and aching. Jaime had a feeling he needed to see a maester about it. The maid came back with Ser Daven who was dressed in armor and wore the biggest smile beneath that mane of hair.

Thankfully, she began drawing another bath.

"So! Ser Goldenhands is alive! That's certainly wonderful since I'm pretty sure half this stack is marriage proposals from half the Lords in the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Daven produced a stack of letters and threw them on the desk. Jaime went to them immediately and inspected. Half of them were actually oaths of fealty from the Lords of the West apologizing for doubting not being able to come to the Rock's aid during it's time of crisis, while simultaneously affirming that they knew the Rock would never fall so easily.

Those same Lords also used an excuse that Jaime couldn't exactly fault them for: they needed what little manpower Lord Tywin did not leave in the Riverlands to rebuild their homes that the Young Wolf tore through. He intended on visiting those same Lords. Lord Tywin had been niggardly in his lordship and intended on ruling through fear. The Young Wolf had been overly generous and his bannermen seemed to take frequent advantage of him. When Tyrion arrived to assume the Lordship, Jaime had no doubt he would rule with a combination of methods. That seemed to work best. Jaime himself, Ser Goldenhands, would have to visit these Lords and their castles. Perhaps lending a hand – the only one he had left – might win the Lords of the West's hearts as well as their swords.

There were other letters as well. Lord Brax informed Ser Jaime that he'd captured Silverhill without a single casualty. Lord Marbrand reported a similar story regarding the Golden Tooth. Ser Daven wasn't entirely wrong. There was one marriage proposal from the Lady of Dosk, and the Lord of the Banefort wanted Ser Goldenhands to know he had a beautiful sister who had loved him from afar, and only now that he was the hero of Casterly Rock did he think a fine match.

Jaime smiled at the thought of "Kingslayer" being dropped in favor of "Goldenhands." Maybe some good came out of Daeron Snow after all.

There was another bizarre letter that Jaime didn't like at all. It asked him to return to King's Landing immediately to serve the King Elect on the Iron Throne. Jaime wasn't aware a King had been chosen. He'd been wrapped up in the defense of the Rock all that business in King's Landing.

He threw the letters down on the desk and undressed. The bath water was hot and he was excited to scrub the battle grunge off his skin, "Well it looks like the Lannisters are back on top, cos."

"You're telling me! We've had hedge knights and sellswords offering their services since the morning after the battle."

"Excellent," Jaime said, "we'll be able to put them to use soon enough." He had some ideas that related to the Dothraki… "All right, let's gather up a force and head out in roughly an hour."

"Where are we going?"

"To Silverhill. I believe we have a surrender to accept." To Silverhill first, and then where? Jaime looked back at the desk as he slipped into the hot water and wondered about that letter. Which King was calling him back to the capital?


	44. Black Iron

**Black Iron**

He was sitting at a feast for the dead. He saw King Balon whose skin was saturated with saltwater and nibbled at by fish. There were two little boys, their bodies burnt to crisps. There was Eddard Stark, holding his head under his arm, a neck stump freely spurting a bloody sauce onto his place. There were Ironborn and Northerners and Baratheons and Tullys and Lannisters all decapitated, or wearing weapons where their clothes should be. So many of them had grave worms crawling through their flesh. Others weren't even recognizable. Their flesh was discolored and wrinkled and they stared at him with dead eyes.

They stared through him. He knew their questions. He could hear them in his mind but no matter how hard he pushed his hands into his ears. Their voices were silent accusations. Their gazes blind penetrations. Ever since he was taken captive, they haunted him. Every night for weeks he tried to fend off sleep. The physical torture was nothing compared to his dreams. He pondered killing himself. But the chains inside the Black Cells held him too tight to the wall. They wouldn't allow him to wrap them around his neck.

He knew the only way to defeat them was to join them. If only the King would return and deliver that justice. He'd seen it a thousand times before. He'd even held Ice: the Valyrian steel great sword used for the justice of the First Men. It was sharp. And he wagered the sensation was closer to pleasure than it was to pain. After what he'd been through, that seemed to be a truth.

The skin of water he'd been given was almost out. He'd heard the rumors of this place. Men died of thirst here. Men were tortured down below. Not since the Targaryen reign have men been transitioned from one floor to the other but there was no historical precedent that could keep him away from his nightmares.

The door unlocked with a great _clang_. It creaked open and the darkness was frightened away by torchlight. He knew that the flame was incredibly dim in comparison to what light really was. But it burned into his eyes and he shivered as if he'd just been tortured within an inch of his life.

A figure entered carrying that torch. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light. The figure knelt down and started speaking, "Here."

It was the King. He handed the prisoner another skin of water. He took it, removed the cap, and let the fluid run through his mouth and down his neck. The water was life giving. Not like salt water, but he was used to the water of this land.

He stopped drinking and breathed heavily. He stared into the King's eyes and asked very simply, "Have you come to kill me?"

The King didn't answer at first. He stared off into the blackness before he finally shook his head and said, "No. It's what you deserve, though."

The prisoner nodded his head, "I know. I wish you would." _I bet Ice's sting is as sweet as a kiss. _

"You want to die?"

The prisoner didn't answer right away. He just sat there and gripped the water skin. He looked up at the King and said, "I just want it all to end, if that means beheading, then I will go gladly, my King."

"You wouldn't even seek a redemption?"

He just sat there and let that word sink in. _Redemption_. What did it even mean? He thought he was doing that when he sought his father's favor, when he invaded his home, killed his friends. He chose blood over water and paid the ultimate price. His father never loved him and would never forgive him for forces out of his control. Redemption was a two edged sword and the last time he wielded it, he almost killed him. _Almost_. And almost wasn't close enough.

"No. There's nothing to redeem me."

"That's a bold statement."

"I'm a dead man anyway."

"The fact that I just gave you a new skin of water doesn't make you think you might live through all of this?"

"Maybe I don't want to."

The King nodded and looked away. He couldn't stand to look at the prisoner for more than a few seconds, "So you want to die?"

The prisoner nodded slowly and repeatedly. He just wanted it to end. If the Gods created men just to be tortured… there didn't seem much point to life. And that was all his life seemed to have become: torture. The physical was never as bad as the mental. The dreams, the nightmares… Did we dream when we died? Was that all hell was: a cycle of memories, watching those you hurt and harmed stare at you with lifeless eyes?

"Yes. Please." He was willing to take that risk. How could there be anything after death? His uncle, the Septons, those fire priests, the Children of the Forest were wrong. All wrong. There was no heaven, no hell. How could any God with any goodness create a life as painful as his?

"Well that's too bad," the King said, "I'm not going to kill you. I'm not a killer."

"You've killed," the prisoner said, "I've seen you kill."

"Just because you dance doesn't make you a dancer," the King riddled, "and if I was a killer, I'd just slit your throat and be done with it. But I can't. We lived together. We fought together. We bled together. And I can't just slit your throat. It wouldn't feel like justice."

He thought about protesting, about telling the King that he didn't kill his brothers. But what did it matter? He _did _kill two little boys. What did it matter if they were children of royalty or smallfolk? Children were children. And murder was murder, "So you're just going to let me rot in this place? At least give me the blade so I can do it myself?"

The King shook his head, "No. You don't want redemption, I _do_. Show me. Show me you're not just a cold-blooded killer waiting all of those years in Winterfell. Prove it to me that you weren't just waiting to wrap your tentacles around my throat. Biding your time until you could go back and strike at all of us." The King stood and walked over to one end of the cell. He looked away from the prisoner and was suddenly lost in thought.

"What would you have me do?"

The King was silent. He turned to the prisoner and fumbled with the keys at his belt. He walked back over to the prisoner and knelt down. He unlocked the chains and said, "My sisters are alive but lost. You will find them. You will return them to Winterfell. That is the only way you can be forgiven for what you've done."

And just like that, he was free. He felt his wrists and ankles like any freed man would do. He looked up at the King who then walked over to the door, about to leave him there.

"What's to stop me from going to the Wall? Or across the Narrow Sea? Why just leave me with this?"

The King turned to him, "If that's what you want, then do it. But if you ever end up in my hands again, I won't hold back. I've given your life back twice today. Don't test it a third time."


	45. Tyrion X

**Tyrion**

Stairs were tough for a dwarf. When he was little, they were what inspired him to read about dragons. When you ride a dragon, you're taller than everybody and you didn't have to spend the energy on your legs. But Tyrion climbed down the stairs to the dungeon and was surprised when he reached the bottom and met a Northerner going in the opposite direction.

"Robb Stark? I did not expect to meet you down here."

The former King in the North seemed to be just as surprised to meet the former Hand of the King down here in the dungeons of Maegor's Holdfast, "Nor I you, Lord Tyrion."

They stood there momentarily in silence trying to come to some sort of passing, "I will assume you're here for the same reason I am?"

Robb Stark looked at him awkwardly, "Unfinished business?"

"Very much so," they reached a silent agreement to not question each other any further. With that Robb Stark made off to climb the stairs. Tyrion called behind him, "Lord Stark," the boy turned to him a few steps up, "I hope you know, I had nothing to do with the attempt on your brother's life."

"I heard to gods declared you innocent, Lord Tyrion. Who am I to dispute a legal trial?" Indeed. Tyrion remembered being surprised when he learned Jaime succeeded in his own trial by battle in Winterfell. He thought for sure once the Allies marched on King's Landing that Jaime Lannister was a dead man.

"I understand the fineries of our legal system, and I know the Starks and Lannisters have been vicious to each other in the previous war. I just hope we can be allies, if not friends in the days to come. I think we're both aware of what Littlefinger is capable of on the Iron Throne."

Robb never made eye contact with Tyrion. He thought about a Winterfell-Casterly Rock alliance and nodded silently, "I think that would benefit both our Houses. Do send me a raven when you return to the West."

"Take care, Robb Stark," Tyrion said, nodding and departing from the Young Wolf. Tyrion wondered what prisoner was down here that he could possibly be in contact with. There were altogether too many possibilities, and not enough.

He descended the next level of stairs down to the Black Cells. The gaoler led him to the cell that was the farthest from the stairwell and the darkest possible room. The gaoler left Tyrion the keys and a torch and opened the door for him. Tyrion walked inside with the torch and shut the door behind him.

Behind the door chained loosely to the wall was his sister. She was dressed in a loose dress that allowed her the luxury of breathing and comfort. She did not go a day without two meals or a night without a fresh skin of water. Tyrion regularly had a set of candles delivered to her so she would not suffer in the darkness. But this was the first time he came down here since the city fell to the Allies.

Cersei Lannister, for all the fineries she was given, looked at the dwarf with a seething hatred in her eyes, "You." She accused.

"Sweet sister…"

"You demon…"

Tyrion produced a wineskin and handed it to her, "It's not water. Arbor gold."

She refused to move or acknowledge the wine. Tyrion sighed and drank from it himself, "As you wish." He walked over to the chair leaning against the opposite wall and sat in it, relieving the pressure off his legs. He set the torch in an iron holder in the wall and gently massaged his aching thighs.

"What do you want?"

"Cersei, I want to deliver you the news."

"You want to be my raven? And then go flutter back into the world? What's your end game, Imp?"

Tyrion ignored her insults and questions and began, "Littlefinger will sit the Iron Throne. He has no heirs and wants to marry his bastard daughter to Tommen. In time, Tommen will sit the Iron Throne and be king."

"And Littlefinger will have made him his in that time. Why are you here? To tell me that you are stealing my last child as well?"

Tyrion drank, "I'm here to also tell you that Jaime has defeated Lord Serrett's siege of Casterly Rock. I will be heading there the moment a crown rests on Baelish's head." He paused and waited to give her the decision, "You are welcome to join us back home if you so wish."

She stared into his mixed eyes and brooded. All Tyrion was offering her was a life. She could rejoin Jaime, live in her girlhood home, and who knows, maybe father more children? Who was Tyrion to try and tell his brother and sister not to mate, as disgusting as it truly was? Tyrion was no stranger to disgust.

"You killed Joffrey."

"I did what needed to be done."

"Joffrey was my first born…"

"Joffrey was a monster. Aerys Targaryen reborn. He may have been your son and my blood, but if I did not give them Joffrey, they would have killed every Lannister in the city. Instead, I saved Tommen, Myrcella, and _you_." He did not expect thanks. Cersei Lannister would never forgive Tyrion for ripping their mother open on his way out. But even some small measure of gratitude for her own life, as dirty as this place was, should certainly be recognized. Tyrion did what had to be done, as brutal as it was.

Tyrion stood from the chair and walked over to her side of the cell. He set down the wine skin next to her and said, "I'll leave you the night and morning to decide. I'll return tomorrow with your breakfast and your decision." Tyrion turned and walked out of the cell, leaving a torch burning as a suggestion of hope.


	46. Arianne VII

****I didn't think I was actually going to have to explain this. But for those confused, the last chapter (Tyrion X) is employing dramatic irony. Tyrion switched out Cersei for a doppleganger and gave her to the headsman. He kept her in a Black Cell before the city was taken and has been keeping her guarded and well fed all this time. Part of Tyrion's character revolves around the good things he does for his family in spite of the fact that they all treat him like shit. I weighed that Tyrion can afford giving up Joffrey, but he couldn't live with himself by handing over his sister as well. Yes, everyone else believes Cersei to be dead. The whole point is that Tyrion kept her hidden, hence why Ser Kevan tells Jaime she's dead, because that's what all of the reports say. It's called "dramatic irony."

**Arianne**

Arianne couldn't sleep. She stayed up through the night playing with the copper snake arm bracelet until her fingers grew tired. She stood up and paced around the room. She drank a glass of wine and after that decided to undress and get in bed. She started to touch herself, imagining Robb Stark on top of her, around her… but it was no use. She eventually stopped and just paced her room again.

All the while she hoped a voice would eventually call softly from her door and Robb Stark would enter. He would wrap his giant's arms around her and say they were going to Winterfell, to be married, to fall asleep on their wolf skins and keep warm through every winter.

Arianne already knew she couldn't just go to Winterfell like that. She had to take her uncles bones back to Sunspear. She had to tell her father she was leaving him there and then tell him she knew about his plan to deny her inheritance. Then she would go North with her Young Wolf.

She sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. The sky turned from black to purple to blue and orange until it finally it turned red once again and the sun peaked over Blackwater Bay. Arianne started to get dressed, figuring she wasn't going to sleep now. As she pulled on a new dress, a sheet of parchment caught her eye on the floor. She bent over and picked it up, unfolding it. It was the six-line hexagram that supposedly told Arianne's future. She folded the frightening sheet of paper and hid it away in a chest somewhere on the other end of the room.

Arianne began the day's preparations early. She broke her fast on a pair of eggs and bacon. Northern food was too bland for her tastes. The Princess dug out a vial of snake sauce and doused her eggs in the vicious substance. She wondered if Robb would ever dare to taste it, or if she'd have to coax him into it. Eventually Princess (did she still have that title?) Myrcella and her guards, Garin and Drey, soon came down and sat with Arianne. Myrcella had taken to Dornish food and eagerly seasoned her eggs. Drey and Garin fought over the last drop in the bottle.

"Has Spotted Sylva taken care of my uncle's bones?"

"She has," Drey answered, "I saw her take the casket and load it in the cart. We're leaving as soon as the coronation ends, aren't we? I've had enough of this place." Arianne nodded and agreed with his sentiment. She'll always remember King's Landing for these past few days. The capital was the place her uncle was killed, the place she first met Robb Stark, the place she first loved a man, but it was only the second place where she received an undesired prophecy.

"As soon as our knees are off the floor of the Red Keep, we're returning to Dorne."

"Will Tommen be coming with us now that he's not in the line of succession?" Myrcella asked. Arianne had to confess that she didn't know the answer.

"I don't know, Princess. I imagine your uncle is taking him back to the Rock."

"Am I still going to marry Trystane?"

"Of course," that much Arianne was certain, "How would you like it if we traveled to the Free Cities?"

Myrcella looked up from her eggs and cocked her head to the side, "Really? The Free Cities?"

"Why not? I've grown tired of Westeros."

Drey and Garin looked at Arianne wondering where she was getting these ideas from, "The Free Cities?" they asked in tandem.

Arianne finished her last egg before she said, "Sure. Let's go back to Dorne, put my uncle to rest, and then sail to Volantis. We'll take a barge up the Rhoyne. Don't you want to see our ancestral homeland?"

Queen Nymeria was driven out of the Rhoyne Valley by the Freehold. I'm sure there are pirates and bandits, and Volantenes enough to ruin any vacation you have in mind."

"Maybe," Arianne said, "we should just bring Obara and Nym with us?"

Garin started laughing as he finished wolfing down his breakfast. Myrcella seemed absolutely ecstatic with the idea of journeying to Essos and visiting a foreign land. She had become so accustomed to Dorne, Arianne wondered if maybe she was Dornish or Rhoynar in her past lives.

They finished eating and Arianne had a cup of tea to calm her nerves. She didn't feel the least bit tired. Rather she was restless.

Garin and Drey asked if she'd seen Ser Arys. Arianne responded that he probably had a new assignment since Joffrey's dynasty, and thus his rule over the Kingsguard, had ended. It was her best guess. Ser Arys disappeared yesterday evening and hadn't shown up since.

They prepared their retinue early and arrived at the Red Keep just before noon. Arianne bowed curtly when she met Lord Uller who was sitting in the center of the Dornish gathering in the Red Keep. The tables the Small Council had set up were all gone in favor of the nine banners of the Seven Kingdoms. There were the usual ones: the red sun and spear of Martell of Dorne, the direwolf of Stark of the North, the moon and sky-blue falcon of the Vale of Arryn, the gold lion of Lannister and the West, the fish of Tully over the red and blue of the Riverlands, and the black stag of Baratheon with a single crown on its head. There were new banners as well: the fox and flowers of Florent, the new Lords Paramount of the Reach. There was the red castle of Lord Creighton Redfort, the soon-to-be Lord of the Iron Islands. And in the center of them all was the pale green banner with a dozen mockingbirds on it. And over the mockingbirds was a golden crown. The royal House of Baelish.

Arianne closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. All their efforts. For naught. She should just be thankful Sunspear didn't lose the Lord Paramountship of Dorne. The deal was made with Harmen Uller and he could very well have demanded that honor in exchange for Dornish support. Instead he reserved Dornish internal autonomy and kept the rest of his plans for himself.

_Half the Ullers are half-mad, and the other half are worse_. Arianne knew the old adage. She just never realized that she was always attached to her uncle's power. As soon as her uncle was dead, they didn't turn to Arianne for leadership, they turned to Harmen Uller. Prince Doran's distrust of Arianne did not escape the other Lords of Dorne.

The room was buzzing with only as much activity as befit discussion of the banners, old and new. There was plenty of excitement from Houses as small and desperate for power as Baelish was. _Can you believe, a house as small and tiny as Baliesh can make it to the Iron Throne? Then so can we! _

There were other discussions as well. Arianne noticed Mace Tyrell standing beneath the Florent banner with some disdain. From what Arianne understood, it was going to be an awkward conversation when he returned home to the Queen of Thorns. Perhaps Arianne should visit the woman. They could hatch a conspiracy that would launch both her and House Tyrell to the top of the southron food chain once again…

Lord Uller, a tall man wearing the red-and-yellow flames of Hellholt towered over Arianne. He was infinitely skinnier than Robb Stark, she noticed, and had a long dark mustache he tried dying red in the Tyroshi fashion. He asked in a gruff tone, "Princess Arianne, will you be leaving after the coronation?"

Arianne immediately understood what he was implying, "You won't be joining us, Lord Uller?"

"No. His Grace has honored me with a position on his Small Council."

The Princess suddenly understood what this was all about, "King Petyr?"

He nodded, "Indeed. He offered us Dornish internal autonomy provided we not only vote for him, but that I accept his position as Hand of the King."

_The Lord of Baelish Keep on the Iron Throne, and the Lord of Hellholt as his Hand. The Realm truly has gone mad. _Arianne tried to keep her composure as she said, "My father will be distraught to learn of the departure of one of his finest bannermen."

"Please give Prince Doran my regards. I will send a raven expressing my grief at his brother's demise. I'm sure he'll be happy to learn we will write our own laws once more."

"I'm sure he will. If you'll excuse me, Lord Uller." Arianne turned and walked around through the back of the Dornish retinue. Princess Myrcella tried to reach for Arianne's hand.

"Is something wrong, Princess?"

Arianne gathered herself once more and told the Princess everything was fine, "I just need to speak with someone." She looked over to the gathering of Northlords on the north end of the Throne Room. There was the unmistakable figure of the Lord of Winterfell and his little Frey wife beside him. _The Lady of Winterfell. Please, my love, can't we have two Ladies of Winterfell? _

_And then you can march on Sunspear in my name… _

"Princess Arianne, is it?" she asked. She was pretty, there was no doubt about it. But she wasn't Dornish. She wasn't fire. She must have been the only Frey who inherited her mother's look rather than the weasel face of Walder.

"It is," Arianne said. She once told Robb Stark that women had inherent power. She tried drawing on some of that as she approached the wife of her beloved, "My lady, I simply wanted to express my sympathies. I had hoped to see you as Queen of the Realm."

Little Roslin Frey blushed, "Oh, my lady, I think that's awfully flattering. Dorne declared for Queen Myrcella all the time, didn't she?"

"I see your husband has not been vocal about our plans…" Arianne laughed nervously, "Dorne intended over all of our support for Myrcella when we had gathered the most strength."

"Oh…" that seemed to take the Lady of Winterfell by surprise, "Well it would certainly be interesting to imagine what might have been. To be honest, I am eager to see my new home though. After the Twins, the Red Keep is a little intimidating. I imagine I will be more at home in Winterfell."

"I think you will," Arianne would give anything to be in her place. Ironically, if she took up her father's offer of Walder Frey, she might be playing a different game entirely. She looked up little Roslin and remembered the fantasy she outlined for her wolf. She imagined her naked. Her breasts were small, yet supple. That was evident even through her blue and gray dress. Her frame was tiny. Robb Stark picked Arianne up with ease, how much easier must Roslin have been. And she was _pale_. Where Arianne was bronzed by the Rhoynish blood and Dornish sun, Roslin's complexion was as dark as milk. She realized she wouldn't mind though. Certainly Arianne could teach Roslin to be a lover as she had learned from Tyene. After a brief moment, she thought of their children. She would no doubt give Robb Stark dark-skinned children with hot Dornish blood while his little Frey wife would give him pale, auburn-haired, river-eyed Tully boys.

"I certainly hope it will mark a new beginning," Roslin held her belly and Arianne knew immediately what that meant, "A good omen I hope. Winterfell still needs to be rebuilt after all this time. I think it's a time for new beginnings, don't you think, Princess?"

Arianne was speechless. She couldn't say why Roslin's pregnancy made her feel this way, but she wanted to retch. She held it down as she felt the blood leave her face.

"Princess Arianne, are you all right?"

"I'm… I'm fine," she tried to reassure her, "Please tell your husband I wish him safety on the Kingsroad. I hope to visit Winterfell one day. We hear tales of it even in Dorne."

She waited only long enough as was polite. Roslin Frey said something that she quickly forgot. The Princess turned and walked back to the Dornish gathering at the opposite end of the hall. Roslin Frey had no idea who she was. She had no idea that Robb Stark made love to her. She had no idea that they fantasized about getting married, about sharing a wolf skin in front of a hearth, about Winterfell.

Arianne stood in the Dornish group of Lords and Ladies and tried to find her head. She asked Garin to help her stand.

"Is there something wrong, Arianne?"

Arianne tried to respond that she didn't sleep well, "I should probably see a maester." Was all she could manage.

Garin helped her out of the Throne Room and into a chair. She sat down and tried to catch her breath. Arianne watched the Kingsguard file past her and into the Throne Room while Garin was off for a pitcher of water.

There was the dog-helm of Sandor Clegane, the first Kingsguard to not be an anointed knight. There was the hanged man adorning the shield of Ser Meryn Trant. An obscure shield of a black kettle on red. There was the swan-crested helm of Ser Balon and there were the three bronze spearheads of Ser Mandon Moore. Arianne knew that Lord Commander Jaime Lannister was either dead or at the Rock. His position had yet to be filled. That only left one seat open.

Garin came back with the pitcher of water and encouraged her to drink short sips. Arianne did so and tried to temper herself when she asked, "Ser Arys. Where is he?"

The look on her milk-brother's face changed from care to horror. His usual smile drooped and he looked grave, "You… you mean you haven't spoken to Darkstar?"

_Darkstar? What did he know? _"What? What did he say?"

Garin looked down and closed his eyes, "Ser Arys went to the Sept of Baelor to confess his crimes in front of the altar of the Stranger." _No. Please say he fled. Say he went to Pentos and left his White Cloak in shame. _

"And there he drew his sword," _No, no, no…_ "and opened his heart for failing his sworn duties."

The tears streamed down Arianne's face like never before. She cried worse than when she discovered her father's hatred for her. She cried worse than when she found out her great-uncle perished on the Trident and her aunt in the Red Keep. She cried because a woman knows. Her hand went to her womb.

Princess Arianne then told Garin the Orphan everything. She told him how she seduced Ser Arys, how she promised him Queen Myrcella would let them marry, and how he eventually relented and she was going to use the conspiracy to usurp her father's judgment. She told him how she tried seducing Robb Stark, but ultimately fell in love with him. She told Garin how Ser Arys scorned her first, and she scorned him the next night. She finally told Garin how the Young Wolf ultimately came to her bed willingly and they didn't sleep a wink. She told him of the old Norvoshi woman's prophecy.

And she told him how because of the son growing inside her, Ser Arys' would not be the last blood shed. And all because of her.


	47. Daryl II

**Daryl**

He'd already seen so many incredible sights in between the capital and Skagos that he had enough tales to tell any sons or daughters or nephews or nieces he might have. Few Stoneborn have ever seen a castle. Last Hearth was no castle, and Kingshouse was more of a log cabin than a hall. But Daryl saw the Red Keep. He saw the choosing of a King. And as his brother's heir to Kingshouse, there was a certain amount of pride. For all their wars against Winterfell, and by extension, King's Landing, all of a sudden there seemed to be a measure of power granted to the Stoneborn.

But climbing up the stairs to a tower wasn't exactly going to enhance any of those tales. Daryl had never climbed anything higher than the wooden sentry. Climbing Maegor's Holdfast was not his idea of a good time, especially when he was ordered to leave his crossbow at the base of the tower. At least they didn't order him to remove his dagger. What kind of place was the South? That they would ask him to remove his weaponry?

He came to the door where there were two guards carrying spears dressed in polished armor with a mockingbird sigil, "I guess I was called here?"

The guards looked at each other and then turned to Daryl to ask, "Name?"

"Daryl Magnar, of Kingshouse."

Before the two guards could do anything with that information, the door opened and there stood the new King-elect. Petyr Baelish. Daryl wasn't sure what to think about this situation. He voted for Stannis Baratheon, a man who seemed like he belonged Beyond the Wall, not here in the fluffed southron court. Petyr Baelish, in his brown and silver doublet with the mockingbird pin, and his well-groomed pointed beard was the exact opposite. He was the antithesis of Stannis Baratheon. Stannis was famous for smashing the Iron Fleet, for holding down Storm's End, and for retaking Deepwood Motte from Asha the Conqueror. Petyr Baelish lost a duel to Brandon Stark and didn't hold a blade until he drew one on Ned Stark.

Daryl was having trouble swearing fealty to this man.

"Come, step into my solar," Littlefinger said, beckoning Daryl into the tiny room. It was a curious thing, this solar. Daryl wondered why the King brought him here. It was filled with maps and swords mounted on walls. There was a trio of tables. One table had an assortment of maps: one of the south, one of Essos beyond the Narrow Sea, and one of the lands Beyond the Wall including the island of Skagos. The maps overlapped each other in no particular format. Another table held a collection of books. One of them was open with a quill next to it ready to write along with an assortment of loose papyrus receipts. There was a third table that had a mixture of books, maps, and loose papers. There was an ornate dagger on top of it all with a handle and sheath made of dragonbone. There was an assortment of spears leaning up against the side of the fireplace where embers were still crackling. Daryl didn't know where the spears came from except the front two. One was a long straight branch tipped with dragonglass. The other was bronze and had the archaic carvings of the Thenn.

"Sorry, King Petyr, I don't know much about courtesies an' all. But I'm wondering why exactly you called me here." Daryl felt uncomfortable having any conversation where both speakers weren't equally armed.

"No worry, Lord Magnar."

"I am no Lord."

"I brought you here to ask you something: why are you here?"

Daryl thought about the question. Why else would a Stoneborn travel south of the Last River? "Someone paid me to be here."

"Paid you? How much?"

Daryl narrowed his eyes as he tried to size up the little man standing before him with the maps behind him, "Enough. Why are you so interested?"

"Because I just wonder why any one would pay a dragon a day for a Stoneborn to travel all the way to King's Landing. Did they give you a reason to be down here?"

Daryl thought of the instructions he was given. _Listen, learn, and do what you think is right_. Strange instructions. Simple instructions for a lot of gold, "I was told to listen."

"And learn." The King said, "You voted for Stannis throughout the entire Kingsmoot. Was there any particular reason you voted for Stannis Baratheon?"

Daryl's eye caught the Thenn spear. Stannis Baratheon could wield it easily and become the Magnar. Men would follow a strong King like him. But Stannis Baratheon was no king anymore. He had forfeit that title when he knelt to the empty Iron Throne and the Stark woman's rules, "He was the strongest candidate."

King Petyr stifled a laugh, "What makes you think that?"

Daryl tried to break it down in his head before he responded, "His armor's got enough scratches. His sword arm's strong. I'm willing to be he gone through a few swords in his lifetime. He's got enough battles on his record. I think he'd make a good King."

"A King on the Iron Throne? Or a King Beyond the Wall?"

Daryl wasn't even sure what Petyr Baelish was implying, but he knew he was implying something, "What do you mean?"

"You regularly go beyond the Wall don't you?"

Daryl did indeed. His brother, Merle, the Lord of Kingshouse was there now, unless he returned to Skagos while Daryl was down here in King's Landing, "I do. The Stoneborn have wildling friends… and enemies."

"Indeed you do. And the Stoneborn are often described as more wildling than Westerosi."

"It's because we are. It's why we tried to overthrow the Starks so many times."

"And you almost succeeded. Isn't that true?"

It was. The Starks spread the rumors that the Stoneborn freedom fighters invaded the island of Skane and ate the inhabitants, but that was a lie. At least, Daryl was always told it was a lie. And even if the Stoneborn did eat the Skanish people (he wasn't entirely convinced there were ever people living on that rock) then it was a matter of survival. Winter had come and stranded them far from their homeland and cut them off from any other food source. There was no shame in being driven to extremes just to survive, "It took the Starks a hundred years to bend our knees. The Stoneborn don't kneel so easily. We are more Free Folk than Kneeler."

"Kneeler…" Petyr Baelish repeated the world like a tiny prayer, "Is that what they call us north of the Wall?"

"It is. Even those that followed Mance Rayder don't kneel to him."

"Well, I certainly don't intend to ask one of the Stoneborn to kneel to me. But as your patron, I have further need of your skills."

Daryl was certainly surprised at this turn of events, "My skills?"

"Well you've regularly gone beyond the Wall, you show up at the gates with a crossbow and a set of daggers on your belt. I'm aware of what kind of education the Stoneborn receive on that island. And I think I have need of those skills now."

"What is it that you want?" Daryl narrowed his eyes.

"I'll continue paying you, one dragon a day, if you go across the Narrow Sea. I'm organizing a mission to retrieve something from Slaver's Bay. And your skills would benefit my team."

Daryl had half a thought to tell this small man to go to hell. He had just made enough money to be richer than any man in Skagos. What purpose would it serve to go to Essos at this little man's request?

"Tell me something," he started, "What did Stannis say to you on the steps to the Throne?"

Petyr responded as if he was shooing a fly away, "He said that stupid prayer his fire god demands. 'The Night is dark,' he said, 'and full of terrors.'"

The Night had a special place in the stories the Free Folk and the Stoneborn told by their fires. There was once a King of that dominion. The things he did were still whispered, spoken with the smallest sound as if bringing them to life might call history to repeat itself. Maybe it was better to go to Essos and try something new, something different, and when he returned north, he would be better trained, better informed, and better armed.

"Tell me about this mission."


	48. Jaime VI

**Jaime**

Silverhill was actually a pair of stony hills. The south hill was the ornate seat of House Serrett with two rings of walls guarding the fortress, the great hall, and the sept. The Serretts prided themselves on their piety. Jaime laughed when he saw it and remembered the Serrett words: _I have no rival_. _Oh you certainly do, Lord Serrett. _

Where the south hill was decorative and wooded, the north hill was industrious and militant. It consisted of a fortress with a thick stone wall and a pair of well-trod roads that carried silver from the mines of the north hill to the town below where it was processed into coins and ingots and other objects of wealth. Casterly Rock would come and take its traditional cut, and then the Iron Throne would come and take theirs. Around the village were the fields and farms of Serrett's smallfolk. As Jaime's men passed through the fields of grain and vegetables, they lamented to each other the plight of the smallfolk: working so hard just to lose half their yield to their liege lord. When Jaime was fighting in the Riverlands or the Crownlands, even in the North, he noticed that the smallfolk had a special affection for their lords. It was a sentiment that was completely lost on Lord Tywin.

The Lords of Winterfell regularly feasted their banner men in the Great Hall. Jaime heard it said, "If your Lords cannot see your face and eat from your hand, how can you expect them to fight and die for you?" Lord Tywin had a very different philosophy of leadership in place. A philosophy written on the ruins of Castamere and Tarbeck Hall.

Ser Daven asked his cousin if he intended on continuing the Tywin Lannister philosophy of rule. Jaime had to be honest and tell him that he hadn't decided yet. As they approached the dual castles of Silverhill the banner waving above the castles were very obviously not the peacock of Serrett over pale yellow, it was the purple unicorn of House Brax of Hornvale.

Lord Tytos Brax greeted Ser Jaime's retinue at the base of the hill and announced, "Ser Jaime, Silverhill is yours." He bowed in his unicorn-crested helm and motioned towards the castle signaling he was going to lead the Lannister caravan into the great hall.

There were over eight thousand men wearing the unicorn of Brax lining the road to the Silverhill great hall. Jaime nodded at the men who smiled knowingly: the West was back on top. _Not yet, men_. Jaime thought, _but it was certainly a start_.

They entered the great hall where alternating banners of red and gray bearing gold lions and purple unicorns hung from the rafters and declared the Lannister-Brax victory. The Serrett household was sitting at the center table with their heads hanging low. Jaime dismounted and brought his cousin and the other high officers from the defense of Casterly Rock to the front of the room. The Lord's chair at the head of the center table was empty with Lord Willam Serrett sitting at the chair's left hand. Jaime thought it was ironic for so many reasons and walked over to the chair. He dusted off the seat and planted himself with his helmet under his arm and his short sword drawn and placed on the table in front of him.

He cleared his throat and said, "Ser Daven, if you would take a seat here. I am in need of a hand." Ser Daven chuckled quietly to himself before sitting at Jaime's right hand across from Lord Serrett.

Ser Jaime sat there and looked around at the Brax and Lannister men around the hall standing with spears around the Serrett men defeated and disarmed. Jaime smiled that close-lipped grin and said, "Well I guess this means we won."

A cheer burst forth from the loyalist men who banged their spears and swords against their shields and hooted in favor of Casterly Rock's victory. Jaime held up his stump for quiet, still feeling a wrist, palm, and fingers attached quieting down. It took him a moment to notice there was nothing there.

"Now, I believe justice should be done, don't you think? This was a vicious betrayal. Since the days of the Kings of the Rock, the silver from your hill over there was part of what made this kingdom great. That and Golden Hill. I suppose that's what made you think you could usurp our role as the Wardens of the West and Lord Paramount? You've always taken pride of place in my father's banner men. Unfortunately, that position now belongs to Houses Marbrand and Brax."

The Brax men cheered once more for that. Jaime let them cheer. They deserved it. He looked at Lord Brax and nodded. Jaime turned to Lord Serrett as he called for silence once more.

"Lord Willam Serrett, I'll have you know two things. First, you were one of my father's most trusted bannermen. Now I have no doubt that Lord Tywin's recent demise has encouraged you and the Leffords, but let's be honest, if Lord Tywin was here instead of me, you entire House would be cut down. I have two of your sons and eight of your nephews captive at Casterly Rock. Now, one of them is your son Tytos. He's going to be the new Lord Serrett and will stay at the Rock to learn what being a proper Westerman is about until I think he's fit to rule Silverhill on his own. He's going to be the new Lord Serrett primarily because you are not. You have a choice to make: the gallows or the Wall."

Jaime let that last word sink in.

"I've never seen it, but I hear there's great honor serving in the Night's Watch. That, and all your past crimes are forgiven once you've taken the black. So consider it an absolving of your sins."

He noticed a pretty young blonde sitting down the row. She was wearing Lord Serrett's colors but had on the unmistakable brooch of gold in the sharp point of a mountain. Lady Alysanne Lefford seemed dismayed at her husband's fate, but Jaime couldn't imagine she was altogether broken up about it. They hardly had enough time to consummate the marriage.

Jaime called Lady Lefford to him, "Lady Alysanne. I'm surprised to see you so far from the Golden Tooth."

She curtsied and looked so frightened. She was no bigger than a young doe and was almost as innocent, "Lady Lefford, what part did you have to play in this conspiracy?"

She was about to speak when Lord Serrett rose in her defense, "She had no…"

Ser Daven shot up just as quickly and drew his longsword. The blade was inches from his throat, "Now now, I think you've made plenty of rivals for the time being."

Jaime nodded, "Lady Alysanne. Please."

She nodded and tried to make eye contact with Jaime, "Well, Lord Jaime," he ignored the misnomer, "I was left in charge of the Golden Tooth after my father's demise at the Fords. My uncle Jon served as the Lord Regent of the Tooth and having seen House Lannister's demise in the field by the God's Eye, thought our House might have a chance at the Lordship. He married me to Lord Willam in the hopes that our alliance might push us to that position."

Jaime had the odd notion that Lady Alysanne was spinning him a thin web. The girl was young. Too young to concoct a plan of that magnitude. Lord Jon and Lord Willam were no doubt the architects of the plan. But the girl must have at least been excited to be Lady Paramount of the West. Oh well, he'd arrive at the Golden Tooth soon enough and sort this out. Lord Willam would be sent to the Wall. When he arrived at the Golden Tooth, Jaime was willing to bet Lord Jon Lefford offered his niece as the cornerstone of the Alliance and hoped to be promoted to First Consulate of the West.

Clever.

"Lady Alysanne, over there is Lord Tytos Brax. He lost his father at the Battle of the Camps and is now the Lord of Hornvale. If he'll have you, you will be his new wife. The Golden Tooth will be united with Hornvale, not Silverhill. Your uncle was wise to recognize the strategic importance his castle held for the West, but now that he's been defeated, we'll need to keep the Tooth in loyal hands. If I arrive at the Golden Tooth and find Lord Jon any guiltier than your former Lord husband, I'm afraid he won't suffer as gentle of a fate."

"What of my nephews, Ser Jaime?"

Jaime looked Lord Willam Serrett right in the eye and told him, "They are loyal lads, aren't they?"

He nodded, "They are, Ser. If I must die in their stead…"

Jaime cut him off again, "You won't. You'll ride to Castle Black and spend the rest of your life there. Two of your nephews will join you. The Wall is undermanned you see. Two will return here to learn the run of the castle. Two will become servants in Casterly Rock. And two will be prisoners in our deepest dungeon to ensure the other four perform their duties. As for the younger son we captured, he's being sent to Lord Marbrand. He'll straighten the boy out and teach him how to properly serve his lord and run a town. Ashemark is bigger than Silverhill. There's a lot to learn there."

Lord Serrett looked shocked. Surprised even. He made to bow low before he asked nervously, "You… you mean my household will not…"

"No, it will not end."

There was a stunned silence in the room before Lord Serrett fell to his knees and started sobbing, "My Lord Ser Jaime, your ruling is just… so just."

All eyes were on him in that Serrett chair underneath a banner of a golden lion. Every men in the room knew the song, but Jaime was not that man. And he did not sing that song. He stood, the helm still tucked underneath his arm and sheathed his sword, "Let everyone know, the West is under a new rule. I am not Tywin Lannister. I will not end your line, I will not rule with fear. To the enemies of our order, know this: we will crush you. Even on our knees, House Lannister still has claws. We are the Lords of Gold, we are the Lords of Silver. I do not intend on killing children. What kind of land is that for me to call home? No. My father ruled by fear for so long that his demise left an empty hole. Suddenly, men who were afraid for so long grew a hair of courage and burst forth to claim Lord Tywin's chair. Those men forgot the laws of succession. My father let his sword be a law. But if swords are laws, then any blacksmith can deliver you a new king. My father ruled with fear. I'd rather see justice. Lord Serrett, for your rebellion, you are hereby banished to the Night's Watch."

Lord Brax then told Jaime they had a feast prepared. Jaime told him to bring it on and encouraged Lord Willam to enjoy his meal, he'll be welcome at Casterly Rock to say one last goodbye to his sons and nephews.

A serjeant came by to tell Jaime they had a band waiting to play music for the feast, "Ser Jaime, we have all the usual songs in our retinue. _The Bear_, _The Dornishman's Wife_, but we were thinking about starting with _The Rains of Castamere_."

Jaime stabbed a parsnip, thinking to himself how used to eating with his left hand he was. He asked his squire to fetch the golden hand Tyrion designed so he could attach a fork to it, "No, serjeant. To be honest, I hate that song."


	49. Stannis

**Stannis**

The year opened with a storm. Petyr Baelish sat on the Iron Throne in the Red Keep with a crown and the Realm on their knees and outside its walls a storm raged as fierce and violent as any that ever visited Cape Wrath. And Stannis Baratheon stood in the eye of that storm inside his fortress on Dragonstone. He leaned against the table, knowing soon he would be kicked off the island in favor of whoever Petyr Baelish's heir was.

He leaned against that giant table Aegon the Conquerer had made to represent the Realm he would soon conquer. He stared at the Realm that was rightfully his but lost by the logic of Catelyn Stark and the poisonous words of Petyr Baelish. And her. He lost because she told him he could win.

She was standing behind him staring outside the window into the thrashing Narrow Sea. Stannis blamed her for this horror, "You said you saw my victory in the flames."

The priestess muttered just over her breath, "I did." She stared out into the storm as lightning streaked across the sky with the hammer of gods smashing into broken shields, "I still see it."

"The flames lied," Stannis growled, "And I'm not better than a savage." Since when did they choose they choose the leader of the pack by words and asking the lords what they wanted? Rule of law was rule of law, and by that law Stannis should rule. But he had to trust in R'hllor. This woman came to Dragonstone and paraded her fires and her magic and her prayers and called Stannis the messiah and Stannis was fool enough to believe her, "Trusting in a _fire god_," he spat the euphemism, "I fought for your god in Blackwater Bay," it was only a few ships from Joffrey's false fleet, but they still counted, "in Winterfell," alongside Robb Stark, "in Deepwood Motte." That he did by himself. He even converted Galbart Glover by coming when Stark did not… and it was all for naught, "I led my men through the gates of the seventh hell as their brothers burned alive, and for what? Attack from behind by Petyr Baelish and the Lords of the Vale? If you see so much in your flames why didn't you warn me?"

Melisandre turned to Stannis and made to speak, to defend her seeresses powers, "The Lord of Light only allows me to…"

Stannis Baratheon had heard this venom before and he spat it out, "_You claim to speak for a god!" _

The woman would not relent. She leaned her hands across the table from Stannis and asked him an indomitable question, "Will you quit the war just because you've lost a battle?"

This was no war. Petyr Baelish was no warrior. But the Kingsmoot was his Trident. And he was Rhaegar Targaryen. Stannis swore an oath and he was bound by law to submit to the new holder of the Iron Throne. But still, she knew nothing, "You talk about war as if you understand it."

She leaned back, smug and satisfied with herself as if she knew some secret history Stannis was ignorant of, "I've been fighting far longer than you."

Stannis looked up from the map. He was leaning against Dorne. He narrowed his eyes as the red woman stared down at him trying to encourage the man she called a King, "Have you?" he asked. He walked over to where she was standing and wrapped his hands around her throat. He felt the air passage close and the precious flow of life into her lungs cease, "Show me how you fight. _Show me." _Her hands instinctively went to his wrists to try and pull him off of her. But his grip was stronger and she soon stopped resisting. Instead she held up her hands in total surrender. Stannis was once a King and now he was nothing. And it was all because she told him he could do it. She told him he would rule all the Realm and hold it in his palms like so many copper coins. Instead, he submitted to Catelyn Tully's rule and Melisandre's assurance. And they were wrong.

He stared down into those red eyes looking for any sign that this god was real, any sign that he had placed his faith in something substantial and not just an incendiary parlor trick. But he saw none. They were empty. Her eyes simply stared pleading back into his, "Where is your god now?" Stannis asked in desperation, "Will he save you?" If R'hllor could strike him right now with flame, he would submit. He would bow to this fire god over and over but he knew it was just ridiculous. There was none. He was gone from this world like the Old Gods of the weirwood that were cut down when the Andals came, and the Seven who only had power over men who carved it into their chests, _"Where is your god?" _

From behind a closed throat, Melisandre croaked two words, "Inside you."

And Stannis opened his hands and held them out. If the Lord of Light filled him with his power, it was up to him to evoke it. How could he fault the gods for his mistakes?

Mistakes…

Melisandre dropped to the floor gasping for breath. Stannis walked over to the window and watched the storm rage and the lightning that marked the Stormlands declare his failure. This all began with Robert. It always began with Robert. Stannis followed his brother into war against the Mad King. He betrayed his oaths for the sake of blood and was rewarded with nothing. Robert never loved Stannis and Stannis never loved Robert. It's why he left when he and Jon Arryn discovered the Lannister conspiracy. It's why he planned for war: because Robert would never listen to him. That time, because the Throne was rightfully his, he went against oath _and _blood. And for that gamble, for that betrayal, he lost the Iron Throne…

The Lannister woman may have organized the conspiracy, the squire may have made him drunk, and the boar may have ripped him open. But it was Stannis' silence that killed him, "I murdered my brother," he declared in horror.

The red priestess stood. While Robert was on his deathbed, she was busy converting the Dragonstone population to the fire god. She looked over at Stannis with her hand on the wooden carving of Blackwater Bay, "_We _murdered him," she walked over to Stannis and put her arms around his shoulders, "Share the weight with me."

What did she care if Robert Baratheon was dead? She didn't know him, they didn't share blood, "He wasn't your brother," the horror solidified in his soul. He hated the Stark woman for denying him his Throne and convincing him to join this Kingsmoot… but if it wasn't for her, Stannis would have killed Renly too… "He was _my _brother."

The red woman tried to encourage him, touching his face lightly and speaking in that soft holy voice of hers, "This war has just begun. It will last for _years_. Thousands will die at your command. You will betray the men serving you. You will betray your family. You will betray everything you once held dear. And it will all be worth it. Because you are the son of fire. You are the warrior of light. You will sweep aside this pretender and that one. You _will _be King."

The words washed over him like the waves outside in the Narrow Sea. She touched his hair and told him how he would be a god and a king and all the rest, but all the proof pointed otherwise, "You promise these things. But you don't know. None of us _know_."

She drew him away from the window and brought him to the torch, "Let me show you," she nodded to the torch and stared at it as the jewel around her throat began to pulse and beat like a heart, "Look into the fire, my king."

Stannis looked. He saw nothing but the dancing flames. The heat from the torch warmed him from the thunder and rain outside the Valyrian walls of Dragonstone. But anyone could understand that. Except for the basic properties of fire, Stannis saw nothing, "I see fire."

"Keep looking," she said, "Do you see?"

Stannis stared deeper into the flames as they kept dancing. And little by little, they morphed and changed. Stannis saw things he never thought he would. He saw himself being paraded through the Seven Kingdoms as a hero. He saw the Wall and the war. That great second god the red woman kept harping about approaching the North with all his icy might. He saw death knocking at the gates of Castle Black and approaching the doors of Winterfell. Stannis saw steel clash on steel and the Iron Throne shake from the quake of the Seven Kingdoms breaking apart once more. He saw the four directions of the earth clash in an eruption not seen since the doom came to Valyria. He saw a field of flowers burn and the sun darken. He saw a wolf and a stag go east, a lion roar, and a kraken tangle with a titan sitting on a throne of blood and bone. And finally he saw himself in a cloak of crows, "Do you see, my king?"

And then he saw dragons.

"Yes."


	50. Robb XII

**Robb**

"This way to the King," Ser Lothor Brune was an old knight. Robb only knew him as the man who destroyed Renly's career. The last time he looked at Renly, he was busy polishing off a wineskin. Ser Loras looked no better when Robb saw him.

Ser Lother held his hand toward the door to Petyr's solar. There were two guards that Robb recognized once before as men once swearing fealty to the Small Council that his mother organized. But instead of the triple sigil with the wolf and two stags, they wore the crowned mockingbird of Baelish. Robb briefly considered how much time it took for Petyr Baelish to have his sigil sewn over the Kingsmoot's.

Littlefinger opened the door and gave Ser Lothor his thanks. He motioned and said, "Young Wolf. Do come in."

Robb Stark wanted nothing more than to refuse and return to Winterfell. But how does one refuse a King? He walked into the solar which was arguably bigger than any solar had the right to be. He looked around and saw the skins of aurochs and boars and moose, and wolves. He saw empty suits of armor keeping guard over the doors to the several balconies that overlooking the city, the Crownlands, and Blackwater Bay. Robb had to confess that he didn't recognize any of the suits. There were ornate suits of copper and steel. Ancient pieces from the days of Valyria. Things from Beyond-the-Wall and across the Narrow Sea. There were six tables, each with magnificent and fantastic things.

One desk had bronze and iron mysteries along with a map of Beyond-the-Wall. Another had a map of the Free Cities and a collection of books and gold coins all bearing the profiles of some long dead Volantene triarch or Braavosi Sealord. There were other tables that Robb Stark ignored in favor of the one that caught his eye: a long table with something covered by a black sheet. Robb couldn't stop looking at the sheet. It was as if something primal drew him to it. He had to stop himself from walking right over to the table and pulling the sheet off just to satisfy his curiosity.

"I have to thank you first, my Lord of Winterfell," Littlefinger went and leaned up against the table just to the right of the mysterious object covered by a black sheet.

"For what? I fought you every step of the way."

"Yes. As did many of the Lords of Westeros. The Red Viper even lost his life to defend that faction. An unfortunate decision…"

The word sunk in. Robb reflected on all of the decisions that brought him to this point, "You made Roose Bolton the Warden of the North?"

"I did."

"The Starks have held that position since Aegon the Conqueror. And we've been guarding the North since Brandon the Builder erected the Wall. You truly mean to change the fabric of the Seven Kingdoms, don't you?"

To his credit, Petyr Baelish didn't hide his intentions, "Absolutely. Why bother vying for the Iron Throne if my goal is to continue the status quo?"

"Then why did you call me here? I fought against you, and would still if I had not sworn to follow the next King on the Iron Throne. You've taken away my inherent position, and you know I want nothing to do with you. So why?"

Littlefinger never ceased smiling and it bothered Robb to not end. He turned around and poured two glasses of Dornish red. He sipped from one and handed the other to Robb. The Young Wolf simply stared down Littlefinger. Finally he nodded and put the cup down on the table, "I've only taken away your position as Warden of the North. Roose Bolton is older, and more experienced in matters that I think will defeat the wildlings in the coming days. Just because the wildlings were thrown back at Castle Black does not mean the realm Beyond-the-Wall is pacified." _So… Littlefinger has his spies even in the frigid wastes, _"It is only a temporary adjustment, Robb Stark. You still retain the position as Lord Paramount of the North. I have no intention of taking that away from Winterfell. Rest easy."

Robb did not, "Then why?"

Littlefinger tapped his fingers on the table as he appeared to be choosing his words carefully. Robb wanted nothing more than to draw his sword against whatever arrow the King was about to fire at him. Instead, Littlefinger began with, "I have received word that my wife has been less than faithful."

It threw Robb off-guard, "I apologize." Robb knew his aunt was less than trustworthy. He had once thought their bond of blood might lead Lady Lysa to join their war effort against the Lannisters.

"It happens," Littlefinger said, sounding almost sad, "The truth of the matter is that this opens opportunities. A royal marriage is an important event, wouldn't you agree? It is a time to forge new alliances. I hear a royal marriage opened your reign as King?"

"I betrothed Roslin Frey prior to my father's execution. Crossing the Trident did not allow me the speed to rescue Lord Eddard," Robb closed his eyes and clenched his fists at the thought, "or my sisters."

"I apologize. Have faith they're still out there. Many people go missing in times like these," he sipped from his glass, "Robert Baratheon cemented his reign by marrying Cersei Lannister, giving him access to Casterly Rock's gold. Renly tried to cement his reign by marrying Margaery Tyrell, giving him access to both Tyrell money and men." The King chuckled at the thought of Renly having Tyrell's men, "To be honest, I jumped at Lysa's proposal because I knew not only would it give me access to the beauty of her form but also the prestige needed for the Lords of the Vale to enthrone me. But now that I am King, I cannot have my Queen sullying my reputation in the beds of other Lords. When I have the evidence, you will excuse me if I must expose my lady wife."

Robb nodded ever so slightly. He would expect it of any one else. Why would a King be any different? He thought of Arianne Martell. Would Roslin tell Walder Frey of what went on between them if she knew the truth? "And you intend to take another wife? For political purposes?"

"Of course," Littlefinger stood erect and walked around the table to the map of Essos. He looked over it with hunger and his eyes fell upon Slaver's Bay, "You see, when I was first declared the winner, I had to think about who I needed to make allies with. Certainly there must be friends across the Narrow Sea who would jump at the opportunity to help the Seven Kingdoms… for a price. I hadn't even considered a wife since I did not know of Lysa's treachery until recently. Otherwise I might make a match with one of the great Houses here in the Seven Kingdoms. Until I began hearing reports from all over. Vaes Dothrak. Qarth. Astapor. Yunkai. And finally, Meereen."

Robb wondered what all these cities at the other end of the world had to do with him, "What about them?"

"Well, there has been a queen who came to Astapor with three ships. She made to buy an entire army of Unsullied. Have you heard of these warriors? Trained from birth to be obedient. They do nothing but follow orders. It's said that if you tell one to stop breathing, he would die blue of face before he disobeyed the order. Anyway, this self-proclaimed queen bought her army and then sacked the very city with it. She marched the army to Yunkai where she lost barely a man when she took that city as well. Finally, she marched the city to Meereen and took it in a violent and protracted siege. All along the way, she freed thousand – millions – of slaves. They call her _Mother _over there. They cheer her name in the streets and shower her with blessings." Littlefinger finished his glass, "Her name is Daenerys Targaryen."

Robb was taken aback, "Targaryen… how?"

"She was sold to a Dothraki horse lord by her brother Viserys. Viserys violated some ridiculous law the savages have. See, the price for his silver-haired _khaleesi _was a crown. So Khal Drogo melted down his golden belt and poured it onto Viserys' head. The only bright side being how well it fit. After Robert Baratheon gave the order for her assassination, Khal Drogo marched his savages south to take ships at either Slaver's Bay or Qarth and then sail here, where they would destroy the Seven Kingdoms. Instead an arrow wound opened the way for rot and he died leaving his little Targaryen widow with only Ser Jorah Mormont and the slaves she freed for protection. Somewhere between Drogo's death and Daenerys' arrival in Qarth, the three dragon's eggs given to her by a Pentoshi magister hatched."

_Dragons… _it took a moment for Robb to process the information, "You want to wed her dragons. Not Daenerys."

"You catch on quickly. I have sent my men around the city to organize a small mission across the Narrow Sea. I want you to command that mission."

Robb took a moment and suddenly wished he had accepted that glass of wine, "You want me to command men to go east and propose your marriage to Daenerys Targaryen in Meereen and convince her to bring her dragons here?"

"Yes," was all Littlefinger said before smiling that wicked thing and pouring himself another glass of wine.

"Why me?"

"Because you are the Young Wolf: you've never lost a battle, men will follow you to the seventh hell and back. And if you accept, it'll bring the expedition to seven and a thousand. A much more auspicious number than six and a thousand."

"So small a mission? This isn't a march down the Kingsroad. You're talking about bringing men thousands of miles across hostile terrain…"

"Yes. I've discussed this matter. It's the sort of mission that demands the smallest group to go east as they'll escape notice. Or it demands the largest group to go so no matter how much attention they attract, only the united force of that attention could stop them from getting to their target. I've already organized the ships necessary. They'll take you to Pentos, where you'll march to the River Rhoyne, and raft down the river to Volantis where you take the Demon Road…"

"No." Robb barked.

Littlefinger only kept smiling.

"I'm serious. I will not do it. And I struggle to answer why you thought I would."

"What is it you want, Robb Stark?"

Robb hesitated before answering. He only wanted to turn around and leave, "To go home. To rebuild Winterfell. And to restore the honor of my House."

"It would seem that you marched all the way to the gates of King's Landing to avenge your father. Avenge him you have. You were even crowned a king for a brief period of time. It would seem House Stark has nothing _but _honor."

"Indeed. Now, if you'll please." Robb was about to turn and leave when Littlefinger walked over to the table with the mysterious black sheet on it. He drew the sheet off with great fanfare. It exploded into the air and flowed down onto the floor like rain. Underneath it was a great curving war horn, eight feet long with gold rings inscribed with runes. It made Robb think of one of Old Nan's stories…

"The Dragon Horn," Littlefinger said, "forged of Old Valyria, it came to me via an old pirate. It controls dragons and forged the first Dragonlords. When you go east, take this with you. Be its master. Even in Daenerys refuses you, the dragons must obey the master of the horn. And that's you."

Robb stepped forward, drawn by some inherent quality of the war horn. Though what, he couldn't say. He didn't even know where to begin. It was long, it was curved, and it called to him without making a sound.

"But never sound it. That's the magic of this horn. No man can call the horn to sound and live. So the legend says. I've never been a big believer in curses and magic, but there are dragons afoot in the world, so I say we ere on the side of caution. Get someone else to sound it if you must."

Robb reached out and touched it. The horn was smooth and dark. Robb wasn't sure what to think or do. But he knew that this didn't change anything. The Dragon Horn was a legend and so were dragons. If they existed at the other end of the world, what better excuse to be convinced of their mythic qualities than that?

"I won't be sounding it. Because I won't be going east regardless. I belong North. I belong in Winterfell." Robb turned and marched toward the door.

"At least answer me this question: you do what honor demands, but what would you do if you _wanted _to do it?"

That stopped Robb from opening the door, "What would I do if I wanted? I already told you: I want to go home. To restore the honor of my House that _you stole._"

"Are you referring to the Warden of the North? You can have that back when Roose Bolton is done with it. I promise you, you'll outlive him. And if you don't, I'll have it decreed when you have a son that your descendants are to carry that position. But for now, I need not just a young hero, but an experienced one."

Robb took that with anger, "Experience? I captured Jaime Lannister at the Whispering Wood. I slew Tywin Lannister on the field South-of-God's-Eye. I laid siege to King's Landing and killed Joffrey Baratheon. I retook Winterfell and threw Mance Rayder back Beyond-the-Wall. And you still doubt my war experience?"

"There's more to ruling than war, Robb Stark. And so far those are the only things I count under your belt: war and honor. I suppose the songs are made of just as much, but I need a hero of _legends_. What would the songs say of the man who brought back dragons? What would the people give to see not just the returned Queen herself, but of the hero who braved all the dangers of the east to retrieve her? What would you demand of your King, who sent you on this most dangerous of missions? Give me everything I ask, and I will give you anything you ask. Simply name it."

Robb wanted his family. He wanted Winterfell as he remembered it. He wanted to speak with his father, and play with Jon in the godswood. He wanted to hold Sansa and Arya and teach Bran to work a bow. He wanted Theon to be there and smile and joke again. But that was all in the past. Not even a King could turn back time. But he could change the future. He could give him Arianne Martell…

And finally, before he could stop himself and his lupine blood from boiling over he said "I will go," that made him smile from ear to ear, "But only if you can answer me this: why?"

"I need dragons to solidify my rule. And I need you to be my new sigil," the Baelish sigil was the titan of Braavos with fiery eyes. But Littlefinger discarded that sigil in favor of a flock of mockingbirds. He donned a new coat of arms, but it didn't change anything. Littlefinger was still a titan, but he masqueraded as a mockingbird. The ruse worked: no one seemed to notice, "Men follow sigils only as long as they have deeds attached to them. You think the people of Westeros will remember I balanced the budget for long?" he laughed, "The Citadel will look at their books and praise me for my financial wizardry. The banks will rest easier with their gold restored. But the Lannisters and the Tullys and the Martells will all hear the news and say, 'Well, that's good,' and go on with their day. The smallfolk won't notice at all. No, a mockingbird wielding gold is not a sigil to follow. A Young Wolf wielding steel is a different story. Especially when behind that steel, are dragons."

"I understand that… I was asking why you sit the Iron Throne," that question seemed to interest Littlefinger a little more.

"What man doesn't want to be King?" he answered.

"You," Robb declared defiantly, "from everyone I've spoken to, to every Lord and Lady of Westeros, the Iron Throne does not suit your style. They say you wanted to be Hand, not King. They said your strategy was to build as much support as you can and then swing it to the first King who would give you the Handship. They said that's your style: working in the shadows, whispering in the King's ear, hiding behind books while you plan. Why sit yourself on the Iron Throne where everyone can see you?"

Littlefinger didn't laugh. He simply looked Robb Stark in the eye as he set his cup down next to the Dragon Horn, "You have a lot to learn, Young Wolf, before you start playing the game yourself. I sit the Throne precisely because it doesn't make sense. Always keep your foes confused. If they are ever certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like to do next. Sometimes the best way to baffle them is to make moves that serve no purpose, or even seem to work against you."

Robb would remember that. He made sure. And only after that would Petyr Baelish give him leave. He walked down the stairs of Maegor's Holdfast to the Throne Room. Before he could cross the hall and enter a hand reached out and grabbed his. Arianne Martell pulled him into the shadows and locked her lips with his. Robb pushed himself away and said, "We can't."

"You promised."

"We can't," Robb said, "yet."

She smiled. It was shadowed, but Robb knew it, "Return to Sunspear. Lay your uncle to rest. And I'll return to you soon. You don't want to see Winterfell until it's restored."

Arianne wiped tears from her eyes, "I know…" she reached into her dress and pulled out a folded sheet of parchment. She tucked it away under Robb's belt, "Don't forget: you promised."

They kissed on last time, in the shadows of the Red Keep and then they separated to watch the High Septon place a crown on Petyr Baelish's head.

When Robb returned to the gathering of Northlords, he simply told his mother and Roslin that the King has honored him with a royal mission. He was to go across the Narrow Sea on a mission of secrecy and return in a year or two. Roslin expressed concern that she wouldn't be able to rebuild Winterfell by herself, but Robb insisted the Freys had the blood to build castles. And if not, there was the Greatjon Umber to help with that.

There was a call for silence. Petyr Baelish came out wearing brown and green and a cloak with a great crowned mockingbird. He sat on the Iron Throne as the High Septon declared him, in the sights of gods and men, "Petyr, the First of his Name, of House Baelish, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

And the King sat there with a smug, satisfied smile. He appeared at first as if he was going to take the crown of gold and silver and put it on his own head. For that was the truth of it: neither gods nor men enthroned Petyr Baelish. It was only him.

To be continued…


End file.
